


Diamonds & Hyenas

by LCWells



Series: Kung Fu: The Legend Continues [3]
Category: Kung Fu: The Legend Continues
Genre: Gen, Mercenaries, South Africa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:46:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 85,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LCWells/pseuds/LCWells
Summary: The connections between Paul Blaisdall and Kermit Griffin went back decades. Blaisdall was a mercenary; Griffin was a protege. Their friendship was forged over many missions including one on the Namibia border where Blaisdall had to make a deal with a South African military officer to save Griffin's life. Now, that debt has come due and Blaisdall is gone. It's up to Griffin, and Peter Caine, to finish the job. This story was written in 1995 and published in 1996.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1996 Author’s Introduction and Acknowledgements
> 
> No story is written in a vacuum and when a story becomes a novel, the list of people to thank becomes longer.
> 
> So, on the top, I thank my primary editors and close friends, who waited very (very) patiently for me to finish the story and fielded phone calls like "Did you SEE that special on hyenas!" They also tolerated comments like "Do you know how LITTLE there is on Angola?" One took me to the Toronto Zoo to see the hyenas. and read a rough draft, then wanted to read the rest, which added an extra 50,000 words to the story. (Stop snickering over there.)
> 
>  
> 
> I thank my editor who started my enthusiasm for this show and provided the tapes of the early episodes when all our station was playing were 2nd/3rd season.
> 
> Thanks is given to NM who took my rough description of a diseased character and provided the necessary medical background for him. I have to thank a policeman and paramedic, who told me what to do with a man covered with gasoline. (Don't light a match...) Other thanks go out to my many friends on the online systems of GEnie and America Online, not only for research help but for encouragement, and so many others.They're all wonderful people. 
> 
> I freely admit that this story started as a "Get Kermit In Trouble" story. A year and a half ago, I came back from the movie Ready-To-Wear and thought it would be neat to get Kermit into a tuxedo. To get Kermit into a tux it would be necessary to get him into a situation where he needed to wear one -- the Mercenaries Ball. Why would he be going there, why was it in town, why, why, why... The story grew from this and went through many different configurations before the first draft was done. This was a mere 40 pages, all written before I got a chance to see the beginning season of the show and many of the pivotal Kermit episodes. 
> 
> In the course of researching South Africa, I was amazed at how much there is on South Africa and the Serengetti, some of Namibia and nothing at all on Angola. It is listed as one of the most dangerous places in the world and the newspaper articles I read bear this out, but it's strange to find a place on this planet that doesn't have more than a tiny chapter in one of many tour books. The best sources of information came from the Washington Post and The New York Times.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part One of the story (chapters 1-3) is on the South African border in 1981.

**Angola - Namibia border, 1981**

Dust devils and mirages played games with the convoy that drove up the long highway that led north out of South West Africa, or Namibia depending who you talked to, into war-torn Angola.

The rust-scarred trucks drove through the western edge of the grasslands. Among the tall grass, huge mounds of dirt indicated termite colonies undisturbed by rainfall or the passage of man, while herds of antelopes scattered at the sound of the engines. Occasionally, a brown and black fox, its bat ears flicking back and forth, would run across the road and yap at the convoy, but there was no indication of human civilization other than the dry roadbed and the sagging phone line hung from posts beside the road. Some of the wire hung dangerously low as vultures perched on it, watching the parade go by.

The occasional baobab tree broke up the monotony of the waving grass. The thick trunks, surmounted by a lacework of tangled branches, were laden with huge weaver bird nests. Under one tree, a troop of baboons gibbered at the trucks, leaping up and down in the branches, scattering birds. The sound carried for miles.

As the trucks drove on, huge granite boulders marked the edge of the Damara mountain range. On the other side of the mountains was the Namib desert and the Skeleton Coast where the treacherous currents of the Atlantic had wrecked many ships over the centuries. Their weathered corpses littered the beaches, from rusting iron to the sun-bleached wooden ribs of whalers.

The road ran parallel to the mountains until it crossed the border, then they'd turn inland toward Xangongo, though that wasn't their final destination.

The mercenaries who drove the trucks knew the day would be almost over before they reached their destination in southern Angola. Then it would be several hours of unloading, and the return trip.

The lead truck turned to the west, into the sand dunes that marked the edge of the Namib desert. The others followed docilely, sending up clouds of fine sand that sifted into the cabs and the clothing of the riders. Two men, a driver and passenger, sat in each truck armed with a heavy-duty rifles held ready for use. Most of the men wore bandannas or sweatbands to keep the perspiration that dripped down their tanned faces out of their eyes, and everyone wore opaque sunglasses. Their bodies stuck to the torn leather seats of the cabs as they rocked over the rutted roads.

Coming up on the border, they were stopped by a swarthy South African Defense Force soldier who stood in front of the barbed-wire gateway with his hand up. His rifle was slung ready for use.

The rider in the first truck opened his door and climbed out, some papers in his hand. His vest was open over his tanned, shirtless chest and darkened with sweat where his body had rested against the seat.

"I have the documents right here."

"Let's go inside," the soldier suggested, squinting at the convoy. The men were getting out, stretching their legs and yawning, the voices a babel of different languages.

He led the way to a small hut beside the road. Outside, there was a water barrel and several chairs sitting under a canopy, shielded from the sun. Inside, it was cooler, the dried mud of the thick walls giving some relief from the heat. Another soldier snored behind a curtain set up at the far end of the room.

On the table were several pens and pencils, papers and a telephone. A pile of ammunition was neatly set to one side, along with canteens and overstuffed packs. It looked as if more than two men lived here.

"These papers are in order," the soldier finally concluded a few minutes later after scanning the sheets. "I'll just stamp them for you, Mr. Griffin." He produced a stamp and a pad and marked the sheets. The inkpad was so dry that the mark hardly showed.

"Any idea of what's over the border?" Griffin asked casually as he looked around the post. His accent marked him as being from the United States.

"SWAPO guerrillas come out after dark mostly," the soldier replied, after stamping the papers and handing them back. They walked outside. "Every night like clockwork. They mine the roads. Sometimes they try to get across, and we shoot them. You make sure you form a laager, like in your American Westerns, and circle your trucks at night or they'll take them from you and probably leave your bodies for the hyenas. Watch out!"

"Catch any of them?" Griffin asked. The South West Africa People's Organization, otherwise known as SWAPO, were alternately known as guerrillas, terrorists, or freedom fighters, depending on who you asked.

The soldier shrugged. "The troop caught six last night, and three the night before. 'Course we had to bury them fast or the hyenas would be after them. They don't care what they eat."

The man grimaced. "Or the lions?

"Lions go for fresh kill. Going very far?" the soldier asked conversationally, eying the trucks. "Lot of stuff heading north these days. We've been un-mining the roads clear up to the border."

Griffin sharply glanced at him, then laughed easily realizing that the soldier was lonely and bored. "Not very interesting a load this time out. Been out here long?"

The soldier spat. "Last day of a long stay. My relief'll be here in a couple of hours. Then, I head back to the barracks. 'Course Ondangwa's no beauty spot, but it's better than rotting out here in the sun."

"Think of your tan," Griffin advised with a flash of white teeth. "The girls love a good tan."

"Lager and pretzels and Maggie," the soldier sighed wistfully, "and more beer. Angolan customs is about a mile up the road. Don't let them steal you blind there. Goodbye. Tot siens."

"Tot siens."

The soldier unfastened the barbed wire gate, and pulled it open. The driver waved farewell as he gunned the engine, and the trucks drove up the dirt road towards the mountains that lay to the east.

A half-mile onward, long out of sight of the watchtower, the convoy turned into the twisting canyons of the mountain range and rumbled onward, making a huge loop around the customs station, to come out, an hour and half later, on the upper edge of a two-lane highway that paralleled the border.

The trucks made good time on the crushed stones until they turned off into the desert and into another smaller range of mountains where the road was practically non-existent. Griffin checked the map in the front compartment and frowned, his fingers tracing their route.

"What are you looking for?" the driver inquired with a heavy Spanish accent. "The road we're taking isn't on that map, or any map, Griff."

"We're not going to check in with Angolan customs?" the man inquired sarcastically. His fingers rapped on the hot metal of the car door for a second.  
Perspiration dripped down from his thick black hair which was tied back in a ponytail. "This stinks, Alphonse."

"What, my truck?" the driver laughed. "That's the smell of money, Griffin!"

"This shipment. It's jinxed. I think that soldier knew exactly where we're going and who we're going to see."

"Are you questioning the arrangements?" Alphonse retorted, his question sounding even more insolent than it was. "It's been set up for a month, Griff."

"Yeah, it's been set up for a month, which means the word could have slipped out," Griffin replied, his gaze restlessly scanning the gold-brown hills around them. "We've lost people since then."

"You're questioning Blaisdell's orders? You? His golden boy?"

Griffin shot him an icy stare. "I couldn't reach him before we left yesterday to express my doubts."

Alphonse shrugged. "So, he was in Johannesburg counting his money. He usually doesn't go on small deliveries like this. You are too new at this to know that. How long have you known him? Two years? One? A month?"

Griffin went back to staring out the window. "I've been around for a while."

"Ah, yes, I know about," Alphonse chortled. "Your exploits are the talk of the Parakeet! The women swoon and throw their panties -- "

The young man flushed. "I doubt it."

"And ask for the key to your bedroom also, I hear!" the driver sneered. "The Parakeet is a good bar where people find themselves without money and try to steal it --"

"It's your choice," Griffin replied lazily, his tone just above serious trouble if the teasing continued. "Maybe you have a girl there?"

Alphonse gave a loud laugh that shook his emaciated frame. He pounded his hand on the wheel a couple of times. "How do you know? I have met a new girl, Carla, and she is in love with me. Can you believe that? She actually thinks she's in love!"

Griffin eyed Alphonse in disbelief. Was any girl that blind? "She must be...young. She believes in true love? With a mercenary?"

"She is young," Alphonse said with a sudden mood change. "She is from Spain and here with no money. She stays busy in an office by day..."

"At night -- never mind." Griffin changed his mind about asking about the night. He had no interest in Alphonse's love life. His gaze drifted to the map in his lap. "Are we nearly there?"

Alphonse grinned. "Five more hours. Will you break out one of those pain pills for me? I have a terrible headache."

Griffin did as he requested, carefully selecting the canteen closest to Alphonse. Their canteens might get mixed up, and after hearing Alphonse complain about headaches and nausea the night before, he certainly didn't want to catch anything the driver had.

"So, you said we lost some people? Who?" Alphonse asked abruptly after swallowing the pill and the water.

"Holms has a fever and landed in the hospital yesterday. So did Wilkins. Atkins, Peters, and Lee all were reassigned to that Zaire operation."

"They've been drinking the wine at the Parakeet! What kind of a fever?"

"Dunno," Griffin replied with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "I heard this from Marcel as we were loading."

"The Zaire expedition is a waste of Blaisdell's work," Alphonse grumbled. "I told him that last week. A few missiles, a few guns, some medicine."

"Of course, he listened to you," Griffin replied with a slight mocking edge. He ran his hand over his hot face and it came away covered with sweat and dust. "He listens to us all."

"He listened," Alphonse boasted. "He knows I know what I am talking about."

Griffin looked doubtful but he didn't comment. Talk ceased. The hours rolled on with no relief from the intense heat that baked the acrid countryside. The convoy passed a herd of elephants, who flapped their huge ears, at the noise. The beasts turned their attention to the branches of acacia trees, pulling down mouthfuls of leaves to chew on.

An hour later, Alphonse turned and headed to the east. The landscape changed. Mopane trees, figs and palms dotted the veld as herds of curved-horned wildebeest and pronghorn antelopes grazed among the waving grain. Birds circled overhead, including vultures and falcons who preyed on the rodents hidden in the brush and dead meat brought down by predators.

Unexpectedly, a lioness sprang in front of the truck in hot pursuit of an oryx. Alphonse stopped abruptly, throwing Griffin, who had been drowsing, against the dashboard.

"What the..?" he mumbled.

"Time to break," Alphonse proclaimed, his attention on the lioness and her prey. He turned off the engine, then reached back and picked up his rifle.

Griffin stared as the man climbed out of the cab onto the hot dirt road. "What are you doing?" he said in sheer disbelief.

The lioness came back across the road, the small impala in her bloodstained jaws, and headed for the waiting pride of lions where a black-maned patriarch was lying under a baobab tree, his tail lazily flicking at the eternal flies.

"We could get good money for the pelt," Alphonse suggested thoughtfully, looking at the lion.

Griffin shook his head, his eyes trained on the lions. "We're not here to poach. Maybe on the way home, but not on the way up. Lion meat stinks anyway."

The men stayed close to their trucks as they stretched their arms and legs or slouched off into the brush to empty their bladders. One man jumped back, mouthing an oath, when he met up with an adder traveling along the side of the road. The others laughed at him as the snake went on, ignoring the human.

"How about that cheetah?" Alphonse asked, pointing to the elegant cat who was working her way stealthily through the grass near several sable antelopes. She was trying to cut a young antelope out of the herd from the angle she was approaching. Alphonse raised his gun and aimed it at the spotted coat.

Griffin slammed his hand on the burning hot hood of the truck a second before the gun went off right behind him. The herd took off in all directions, the cheetah missing her prey as the young antelope dodged, but the bullet missing the cat as she chased the deer.

He glared at Alphonse who grinned at him and hefted his gun. "You have a soft spot for animals?" Alphonse asked mockingly.

Griffin replied sharply, "We're not here to kill the wildlife!"

"Survival of the fittest, Griffin," Alphonse sneered. "Did you learn anything in Afghanistan?"

Griffin, overcome by a crazy impulse, yanked the gun from his hand, and aimed at the sable deer closest to the cheetah. The rifle's recoil hurt his naked shoulder as he fired. The buck went down almost on top of the cat which skittered to a stop in a cloud of dust.

Across the road, the lions roared, their repast disturbed. Several of the lionesses prowled restlessly, their eyes on the humans and the trucks.

Griffin lowered his gun. "I'm not sure she'll eat it, but now she's got a chance."

"Before they come in?" a new voice asked in a harsh Texas accent. The burly man had walked up from the next truck. Griffin vaguely remembered being introduced to him. His name was Bob Williams from Austin. He was pointing to a pack of hyenas, just to the north of where the cheetah was crouched over the dead deer, her nose visibly smelling the air for danger.

"I hate those things," Griffin snarled, putting up the gun again.

Alphonse grabbed his arm. "It's not our job," he said in faultless imitation of Griffin's tone. "Get in the truck, Bwana, and let's get moving. The safari is over with."

A hyena yelped. Several others from the pack chimed in, and the cheetah, having bitten free the lower leg of the buck, retreated swiftly into the brush right before the hyenas arrived to tear at the carcass.

Griffin, swallowing his anger, walked back to the other side of the truck. Williams stopped him before he climbed in. "You can't kill only the ones you don't like. There are always hyenas, Griffin." His gaze flicked to Alphonse.

Griffin didn't trust himself to comment, just nodded and climbed in, putting the rifle behind the seat. Alphonse slammed shut his door and started the engine with a roar that startled the lions.

Williams waved at the others who climbed into their trucks, and trotted to his own, swinging himself into the front seat and gunning the engine to follow Alphonse.

The land rolled endlessly on under the burning sun, and Griffin drank frugally from his canteen, wetting his throat. Both he and Alphonse covered their noses and mouths with bandannas to keep out the insidious dust.

Hours later, Griffin was jolted out of a half-sleep by the abrupt stop of the truck. He rubbed his eyelids free of the encrusted dust and sand, feeling the grit between his fingers, and blinked. He pulled down the bandanna and looked around.

They had driven into the kopjes, rocky areas that bordered the mountains, then up into the winding canyons that made up the lower mountain range. What grasses survived in the baking heat were on each side of the overhanging canyons and tall enough that they brushed the windows of the trucks.

The reason for their stop raised his gun and aimed it directly at Alphonse who kept his hands clearly visible on the wheel and smiled at the strange soldier, dressed in dark khaki.

Griff looked into the side mirror and saw other black soldiers, decked out in camouflage that made them hard to spot, stepping out of the underbrush, holding their guns ready. "Friendly lot, aren't they?"

Alphonse held up his hands and waited as other troops stepped out of the jungle up to the trucks. The first soldier came up beside the window, his gun ready.

"The blue moon will set among the ivory," Alphonse said in Bantu.

The soldier replied in the same language, "And the ivory will dance. You have the shipment?" he finished in English.

"Si."

"I will take you to camp," the soldier said, hitching himself on the side of the truck, the safety secured on his rifle.

Alphonse drove up the rutted path among the towering canyon walls till they found a clearing. Several thorn trees clustered to one side of the water hole whose muddy edge had been trampled by both human and animal tracks. Against one wall, under the overhang, were several camouflaged huts, tin-roofed and built out of weathered lumber. The incline of the canyon's wall and camouflage webbing that stretched from wall to the roofs made them impossible to see from the air. Ten or more soldiers in the same dark khaki as their guide, filled barrels at the oasis, while several others rolled one barrel away towards the huts.

"What's in that one?" Griffin muttered out the corner of his mouth seeing one hut apart from the others. A bored guard sat outside it, chewing gum.

Alphonse shrugged. "Probably the sick tent."

"I thought people didn't get sick around here," Griffin retorted.

"I don't," Alphonse boasted. The trucks drove around the oasis to the far end of the canyon, and parked beside the first hut. The door opened and a tall man, dressed in khaki pants and a white shirt, stepped outside, lighting a cigarette from a pack in his pocket. Gold glinted on the braid of his uniform hat.

The soldier jumped off the truck and walked around to the back of the truck as the drivers and their riders clambered out of the convoy. Alphonse clambered out of the truck.

The tall man surveyed Alphonse. "I am Captain Herrara. You are..."

"Alphonse Costca. Right," Alphonse replied arrogantly. Griffin had the feeling that Alphonse was being deliberately obnoxious.

The Captain's face showed a trace of distaste but it was gone in a second. His eyes were hard and black. "Costca? I was told to deal with Kermit Griffin."

"I'm Griffin," Kermit spoke up. "Do you have the papers, Captain?"

"Yes. Come inside." Herrera scanned Griffin for a second, his expression not changing, then waved towards the hut.

Griffin climbed down from the cab, seeing the other trucks being unloaded with the help of the soldiers. The boxes of guns and ammunition were carried inside what Alphonse had thought was the sick bay. Obviously, Captain Herrera wasn't going to get himself blown up if he could help it.

Afternoon sunlight filtered in between splintered boards, and dust motes danced in the stifling air as Herrera led the way into the hut. Two soldiers followed them and stood inside the door while the captain went over to a long table, strewn with papers.

This was obviously Herrera's sleeping quarters as well as the operations center. A cot, draped with multiple layers of mosquito netting, sat against one wall next to a small table. On the table was a small oil lamp, and a wind-up clock with a dented bell on top. Griffin had a feeling the clock had ended up being thrown at a wall more than once, or, possibly, at a soldier or two. It was rusty and old-fashioned, and the timing was off, he concluded with a quick glance at his own watch, by at least fifteen minutes.

An antique radio dominated the other end of the room with a rickety chair set in front of it. Griffin felt the hairs on his neck go up, but he didn't let his expression change as he surveyed the radio. Something caught his attention and he bent down to eye it carefully. Corrosion. The radio was probably useless.

"Alphonse, we'll have to use the radio we brought," he called.

"Try that one," Herrara ordered bluntly as he took a paper off the table. "You have the coordinates."

Griffin shrugged. "As soon as we get a signature on those forms, Captain."

The man smiled thinly, and took up his pen. He wrote his signature on the forms Alphonse held out, and then put the pen down.

"Go ahead," Alphonse said smugly. "Griffin, make the call."

"Don't you want to check and see how the unloading is going?" Griffin asked uneasily. He looked at the closed door.

"Make the call," Herrera ordered, leaning back against the wooden table, his right hand playing casually with his pen while the left hovered inches away from the gun tucked in a holster.

Griffin stared at him in puzzlement, then looked at Alphonse. The man shrugged. "Do it, Griff. You're the communications man this trip."

He sat down in the rickety chair, and flipped several switches. To his surprise, the radio came to life. "It's in better condition than I thought," he said aloud without realizing how his voice carried. From the corner of his eye, he saw Herrera smile.

"Ivory to Adder, Ivory calling Adder -- "

"Ivory, this is Adder," came a dry, older voice out of the radio.

Griffin had never met the radio man on the other end. Blaisdell had already recruited Adder long before Griffin entered the picture, but he had always imagined the man as a wizened dwarf who never seemed to sleep. At least, every time Griffin had called, day or night, Adder had been there.

"Adder, we have gotten -- uhhh!" Griffin fell off the chair onto the hard-dried mud floor as a rifle butt smashed against his ribs. He curled up protectively, his hand reaching for the gun in his belt, but the butt smashed at his back, and his vision swam.

Dizzily, he felt himself flipped over, his gun and the knife in its sheath taken away from him. One of the guards slammed his gun against Alphonse's back as the man held up his hands in surrender to the Captain's gun. The thin man went down on his hands and knees.

"Ivory? IVORY!" the voice called out of the radio.

"Welcome to Angola, gentleman," Herrera said icily. "I am Captain Tallaz of the Cuban army and you are all prisoners of the Popular Liberation Movement of Angola, the real government here."

"Oh, hell," Griffin gasped. "A damned Communist."

"Thank you for the guns, gentlemen. I have been short of ammunition for several months." Tallaz picked up the radio and flipped the switch. "Adder, this is Tallaz."

"Who?"

"Tell your commander that if he wants his men back, that I will trade them for one hundred thousand dollars."

"Who is this again?" Adder questioned slowly.

Tallaz gave Griffin a thin smile as he tried to sit upright. The pain in his ribs made him gasp as he moved. The soldier stood beside him, the gun raised ominously. He clicked down on the transmitter. "This is Tallaz. Tell Paul Blaisdell if he wants his men back alive, I will contact him at this setting, the day after tomorrow, at this time," Tallaz replied.

"I need to speak to Ivory," Adder barked. "The only person that Blaisdell will talk to is Ivory!"

Tallaz held the microphone in front of Griffin's face. "Talk to him. You have three seconds."

"Adder, this...is Ivory," Griffin wheezed.

"For real, Ivory?" Adder demanded.

"It's all real, Adder."

"We will be in touch," Tallaz cut him off. He flicked the off switch on the radio, and checked his watch. "I suppose I must keep you alive, 'Ivory' until then."

Griffin narrowed his eyes at the tall man, who stepped back instinctively. The soldier raised his gun warningly, and Griffin reluctantly relaxed. Despite the pain, he had almost jumped the officer.

"Mercenaries are whores for the highest bidders," Tallaz sneered, lighting a cigarette and tossing the hot match on the mud floor. "How much do you think you are worth?"

"What?" Griffin muttered as he swayed upright. At a jerk of the gun, he put his hands on his head.

"How much money are your lives worth to Paul Blaisdell, master mercenary?" Tallaz asked with a sneer as he leaned back against the wooden table.

Griffin had a sinking feeling. He wasn't sure he was worth a franc to Blaisdell despite their last adventure in Afghanistan. "What are you planning?" Griffin finally asked as the silence in the room grew long.

Tallaz looked outside where the trucks were now being unloaded exclusively by his men. "Dinner. In three days, either your Blaisdell will give me the money or I will shoot all of you one after the other, and leave the bones for the hyenas. The first man who tries to escape will be staked out in the hot sun until it bakes him like a tortilla," Tallaz said, reading him correctly. "Now, dinner. Josia, Kampua, take them to the others."

Griffin got to his feet, despite the agony it caused in his ribs, and stumbled after Alphonse out of the hut.

Outside the trucks had been driven to the other side of the water hole by an overhang and parked in the shade. Several soldiers swept away the tire tracks, and the water hole looked almost uninhabited except for by the vultures that wheeled in circles in the cooling night air. Out of one hut came the appealing smell of cooking. The soldiers dragged the prisoners to a hut, then bound their hands, then threw them in with the others.

Griffin landed on another man, who cursed him luridly, as he rolled over to end up next to Alphonse. The men shifted till they had some dirt to lie on.

"Hell of a way to spend the last days of your life," Griffin said under his breath.

"Shut up," Alphonse snarled. "Just shut up!"

Two days later, a tall man drove a worn-out jeep with flaking paint and thin tires through the armed and manned gate that led into the small garrison town of Iptaki, Namibia. Only twenty miles from the Angolan border, the fort and farms were surrounded by two separate barbed wire fences, a breast-high stone wall, and had watchtowers several hundred feet apart along the perimeter. Machine guns and cannons protruded from the towers, and the driver could occasionally see a soldier looking out, as he drove through the business area where bars and small shops catered to the civilian population and out to a farm set apart from the city by several miles.

He was stopped at the gate by a weathered soldier in his forties who held up his hand.

"Good day. I'm here to see Captain Keetman?" the driver said, holding out his passport.

The soldier looked it over, then compared the face with the picture inside. "Mr. Blaisdell? The Captain is waiting for you up at the house. Just keep going up this road."

Blaisdell looked up the crushed stone drive that led to a cluster of buildings, with an omnipresent watchtower, a mile or so beyond the gate.

"I'll tell him you're coming up," the soldier said. "Drive through, sir. _Goeie midday._ " He opened the gate to let the jeep in, then closed it behind Blaisdell. Looking in his rear-view mirror, the mercenary saw the soldier raise his radio and begin to talk into it as the jeep approached the farmhouse.

The stone house had a main building and two wings. Two tall, barred Palladian windows flanked the front door, and above them, two more casement windows on the gable in front. A small planter sat on the curved front steps, filled with yellow and white daisies that spilled over the edge, their petals a brilliant contrast against the dark bricks. Trapped in one of the upstairs windows, a lace curtain, caught in the closed sash, flapped in the breeze.

The right wing was stuccoed mud with traces of paint that had been weathered off by the harsh winds and baking sun. The gable on the end had a doorway a good six feet off the ground, reachable by an black-painted iron staircase.

On the left, the numerous windows had rusted mesh over the glass panes, and ran the length of the building. Blaisdell suspected that this was the barracks for the troops from the number of men who seemed to be working at that end. The hot sun had bleached all the color out of the wing, leaving it a pitted sandy brown, except for the dark metal roof where a green patina had rusted into dark ugly streaks. A satellite dish, antenna pointed to the sky, sat to one side, as well as the ubiquitous telephone pole with a line to the crooked poles that lined the road he had been following, through checkpoint and checkpoint, from Windhoek.

_Count on Keetman to always be in contact,_ he thought. His reputation had been built on being prepared for anything that came his way.

A small, single-winged plane sat on the tiny airstrip behind the main house, with several men working on it. Two armored personnel carriers sat baking in the hot sun next to the buildings behind the farmhouse. There had to be extra barracks of some kind since more soldiers came and went between the small Land Rovers parked nearby and the workshop on the edge of the runway.

_They all look so young,_ Blaisdell thought unexpectedly, watching the men. The soldiers were probably in their early twenties with the towering self-confidence of youth. _I don't know anyone that young anymore._

Blaisdell parked the battered automobile in front of the house and paused for a second to look in the mirror and brush back his dark hair into smooth waves behind his ears. His reflection -- thick dark eyebrows above blue eyes and his face caked with a layer of dust over sunburned white skin -- stared back at him. He could recognize the signs of strain, even if he wasn't going to show his anxiety to the man he was going to meet. He pulled off his jacket, slung it over his shoulder, picked up the briefcase from the back seat, and went up the stairs.

A short soldier in a floppy hat and khakis limped around the corner, his rifle balanced on his shoulder. He squinted at Blaisdell for a second, then glanced at the open door.

A man walked out onto the chipped stairs. Deceptively fragile with a slender build and a fine-boned face, with only a few sun wrinkles around his eyes, he was a few inches shorter than Blaisdell. His short fair hair, sun-bleached to ash, was brushed back neatly behind his ears and ended a half-inch above his collar. He wore a dark blue shirt and tan pants with highly polished boots. His right hand sat on the butt of the gun protruding from his waistband until he held his fingers out to the tall, craggy visitor.

"Paul Blaisdell?" he asked with a soft English accent. "The Falcon?"

Blaisdell shook his hand. "Captain Alexander Keetman. I'm glad to finally meet you."

"It's strange we haven't met before," Keetman agreed with a smile that showed his white teeth. "I've heard a great deal about you. Come inside. Let's talk."  
Blaisdell followed him inside the house where the temperature, in the deep shade, was almost chill after the blistering ride north.

The entry led into a cavernous dining room with a huge polished stinkwood table and chairs on a blue-and-white tiled floor. To one side, a windflower arrangement in a cobalt vase rested on a wooden pedestal.

Keetman led him through the dining room to a study carved out of the cavernous room by a wooden screen. The intricate Indian-carved sandlewood had the darkened tone of great age as well as a faint lingering scent. It was lined with bookshelves, the serried ranks of books broken up by a large glass-fronted armoire where a silver teapot and several teacups gleamed in the sunlight that sifted through the wire-meshed windows. Two large floor lamps sat beside a sofa and two comfortably worn chairs. The coffee table sat in front of them. A basket of mending sat beside one of the chairs.

Right beside the door, a set of rifles rested on a gun rack, their ammunition below them. Their gleaming metal and well-oiled stocks were a stark reminder that South West Africa was not a peaceful land for anyone.

A tall woman set down a silver ice bucket, sweating in the heat, on the wood desk, and turned as they entered. Her rose cotton dress flowed loosely around her body.

"My wife, Danielle," Keetman introduced her with a softer tone. "This is Paul Blaisdell."

Her reddish-blond hair that fell in a braid to her waist. Her lake-blue eyes surveyed him, assessing him, and Blaisdell was aware of his sweaty shirt and flushed face.

"I've brought you some ice, Alec. Do you want some tea or coffee, Mr. Blaisdell?" she asked politely, her accent softer and more musical than Keetman's.

"No, thank you," Blaisdell replied courteously.

"Then I'll leave you alone. I expect you will staying for dinner?" She glanced at Keetman, who smiled at her.

"He will certainly be staying here, Dani."

"That would be an imposition," Blaisdell said uncertainly. "I believe there are some rooms in the city -- "

"If Alec says you'll be here, Mr. Blaisdell, then I'm certain you will." She cut him off with a sweet smile. She kissed her husband on the cheek as he put his arm around her waist and gave her a slight hug. "The latest set of messages are on your desk." She glided out, shutting the wooden door behind her.

Keetman poured himself a drink. "Do you want anything?" he asked. "I have gin, whiskey, bunchu brandy, ginger ale..."

"Gin, please." Blaisdell took the filled glass and sat down opposite Keetman, who settled in a leather chair.

"So, what can I do for you?" Keetman asked after sampling his vodka.

"I need help," Blaisdell said bluntly, lifting up the lid of his briefcase. He didn't miss Keetman's sudden tension. The man's hand was on the gun butt just in case a pistol came out. He had no doubt the soldier knew as much about Blaisdell as the mercenary had been able to pull together about Keetman in two days. Maybe more.

He pulled out a set of papers. "As you might have heard, I was sending a shipment to Angola, up near -- "

Keetman waved his hand. "No names. I knew about it. It was a joint shipment for SWAPO and the Angolan rebels. You covered both sides of the conflict."

"How much did you hear before the shipment? I suspected there was a leak," Blaisdell grimly commented.

"That's unimportant now," Keetman replied amused. "What do you have there?"

Blaisdell pulled out the first sheet. "You aren't the only one who knew about it. Apparently someone knew we were coming. Through my radio man, I've got a ransom demand for the men in the convoy."

"A ransom demand?" questioned Keetman, taking the paper from him. "You mean they're still alive?"

"Yes, they're still alive," Blaisdell said harshly.

Keetman's grey eyes widened fractionally as he read the message and handed it back. "A high price for mercenaries."

Blaisdell acknowledged that with a nod. "More than I got for the shipment."

"Are you're sure the men are alive?" Keetman persisted. "It's rare that anyone bothers keeping them alive."

"My man insisted that Griffin attest that they were still alive before he'd pass on the random demand. He made clear that Griffin and the others had better be alive the next time he called, or the deal was off."

"So, you're going to deal?" Keetman asked.

"How can I not? I want to keep them alive. Tallaz looks like he can be bought off, but I doubt he'll keep his word," Blaisdell said soberly.

"The law of the jungle," Keetman mused. "They could already be dead."

"Griffin is supposed to call me tonight. I'll work out the final details with Tallaz. If I don't hear from Griffin, it's over," Blaisdell concluded.

"So, what do you want from me?" Keetman asked watching him closely. "After all, you're shipping weapons to my enemy as well as your enemies."

Blaisdell shrugged. "If you knew the shipment was going out and didn't stop it, you probably don't mind if SWAPO gets it, Captain. I don't think you'd have let it go forward if you didn't."

Keetman chuckled. "You're giving me great credit, Mr. Blaisdell. I'm hardly infallible."

The mercenary raised a disbelieving eyebrow but politely didn't comment on that. "As for the Angolan rebels, your people are also supplying weapons to them, so you can overthrow the Communist government up there."

"You're saying I have a fifty percent chance of getting shot by anything in that shipment, rather than one hundred," Keetman commented with an amused edge to his voice. "Tactful. As for your men, you're doing everything that could bring them back alive."

Blaisdell licked his lips realizing this was going to be as difficult as he had imagined. "I need your help to get them out before the deadline. I know you have a group of troops up here watching the border with Angola which regularly make sweeps in there -- "

"That's illegal," Keetman said, his voice cool. "Crossing the border for any reasons, including personal, is illegal. We only respond to possible threats."  
"Whether the Namibians want it that way or not."

Keetman spread his hands fractionally. "The government of Namibia, along with the government in South Africa, have declared that SWAPO and the other rebels coming out of Angola are invading our sovereign territory."

"The rebels coming out of Angola say they are freedom fighters against South African tyranny and a puppet government installed by Pretoria in Namibia," Blaisdell said blandly. "The UN recognized SWAPO as the sole representative of the Namibian government in 1973, nearly eight years ago."

"There have been elections since then," Keetman riposted. "The Namibians voted for their own government -- "

"The elections were boycotted by SWAPO and condemned by the UN. South Africa still rules this country," Blaisdell stated flatly.

"Not strictly speaking, but, in actuality, yes. We feel that we are preventing the spread of Communism down from Angola, a feeling that the United States government agrees with and supports us in doing," the soldier replied blandly, his amused expression at odds with the party line rolling smoothly off his tongue. "The Namibian government has also instituted a draft to protect itself from Angolan guerrillas, who are fighting their own civil war against that country's Marxist government. Your country is supporting the Angolan rebels in that case, remember? That's who the guns were for."

Blaisdell nodded ruefully, realizing that his personal feelings about South Africa and apartheid were interfering with his mission. He had to get Keetman on his side, and attacking the government and military of South Africa wasn't the way to do it. He made one last protest. "The United States also says the Cubans are sending advisors to the Angolan government. We don't support communism in any form."

"They are not only sending Cuban but Russian advisors," Keetman retorted. "We have proof. For the moment, let's forget, in this instance, who is the villain in southern Africa and who is the hero, Blaisdell. You are a mercenary and your men are all hired guns. I am in this country by request of the legitimate government to help prevent communism from spreading south and to help these people live in peace. Our differing views are too opposed to discuss here and now. What about your men?"

Blaisdell's gaze met Keetman's unflinchingly. He realized the officer's gaze was now all business, all professional -- and ruthless. His words left an intriguing amount unsaid as well. Did this mean Keetman was a South African liberal? Strange to find one in the military. "Keetman, you're the only hope I've got of getting them out. You've got the troops here and the expertise. I want them out safely."

Silence stretched between them as Keetman sat back and thought, tapping his fingers against the worn leather of the chair. Blaisdell glanced out the window at the gold-brown veldt with billowing waves of dried grasses, and in the distance, a sparse grove of green trees. Outside the double lines of barbed wire beyond the watchtower and airstrip, a road bordered by the iron water pipe snaked north into the low desolate of mountains which looked hot enough to melt asphalt.

"Why these men?" Keetman asked suddenly. "Why do you care?"

Blaisdell felt his shoulders relax momentarily. Keetman was still interested. "I don't leave people behind if I have to. It's not my way of doing business."

"As long as these men are yours, you'll do what you can to get them back?" Keetman said lazily, his hand moving up and down on the sweating glass. The ice cubes clicked as he lifted it to his mouth and drank.

"Yes," Blaisdell said meeting his gaze with a look as cold as the ice in the glass.

"But one of them must have told Tallaz about your shipment," Keetman mused. "You have a traitor somewhere."

"I'm working on finding him right now," Blaisdell replied.

"Do you think he's among the captured men?"

"I don't know. I doubt it. He's probably not quite that stupid."

Keetman leaned forward, staring into Blaisdell's dark eyes. "You don't know a lot, Blaisdell."

Blaisdell assessed that. "You say you know more?"

Keetman smiled. "More than you do. The latest report is on my desk."

"About my men?" Blaisdell said eagerly.

"Yes. I picked up the initial call from your radioman, and kept listening," Keetman admitted, putting his glass on a coaster. He went over to the desk and picked up a brown folder that had been lying under a black telephone. "I contacted my scout, Nangolo Otaya, and asked him for a status report."

"What did he say?" Blaisdell leaned forward.

"The camp is next to a water hole up in the mountain ranges, in a canyon. You can't see it from the air at all. There are several huts." Keetman scanned the typed material quickly. "Otaya says your men are being kept in one hut. Your guns and trucks are gone. All that's left is a jeep and one last truck, and about twenty troopers, enough to do what needs to be done."

"Enough men to kill them all," Blaisdell echoed.

"There aren't any trucks to take them to the border if he's releasing them to you," Keetman agreed. "Unless he plans for you to come in and take them out yourself. He might make them walk -- "

"They'd be dead of the heat in a day," Blaisdell concluded grimly. "I was right about him."

"Oh, very much so. He's not an independent operator, Blaisdell. Tallaz works alongside a man named Nicholas Steshka, a Russian officer assigned to help prop up the Angolan regime."

"Steshka?" Blaisdell asked curiously.

"He spends most of his time in the diamond mining area to the north in Lunda, but Tallaz is his fist in the south. In fact," Keetman paused for effect, "I'll lay coin on the fact that your guns are going to Steshka rather than any of the guerrillas. That means no one has to acknowledge that the shipment and your men ever existed." He picked up the paper Danielle had left behind and scanned it. "Apparently, he's planning something else. Tallaz, that is."

"What?" Blaisdell asked.

"He's digging a trench under the overhang at one end near some boulders. Otaya nearly got caught. It's big enough for a mass grave. Otaya pulled back for the night so he could radio me. He's on watch."

Blaisdell ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. "So, in other words, he's planning to kill them tomorrow."

"Sometime soon," Keetman agreed. His grey eyes surveyed the other man assessing his emotions. Placing the report on the coffee table, he sat back in the leather chair which creaked under him. "So, what will you give me, Blaisdell, for my help?"

Blaisdell sank back against the couch's embroidered pillows. "What do you want, Captain?"

Keetman mused, his fingers drumming the chair arms. "What do I want? What are you offering?"

Blaisdell spread his hands. "Money?"

The South African made a face. "It would be hard to hide."

"Swiss banks have been known to keep their silence," Blaisdell said dryly. "What else? Weapons? Information?"

"Drugs?" Keetman asked softly.

Blaisdell stiffened. "I don't deal in drugs. Neither do you if my information's correct."

The man smiled. "I know. So, what else?"

Paul shrugged. "My word?"

"Your word? About...anything?" Keetman put down the paper. "A promise?"

"A promise?" Blaisdell felt his feet were on quicksand and he was sinking fast. "What kind of a promise?"

"Anything I ask for?"

"What!?"

"An open-ended promise, Blaisdell, that you will be honor no matter what I ask for, at any time?" Keetman asked, watching him closely.

Blaisdell struggled with this concept, conflicting emotions tearing into him. The obligation to his men, his native caution, and the realization that there was a huge chasm beneath his feet that he had almost walked into. "I...I can't do that."

Keetman leaned back in his chair. "Why?"

"Why?"

"Yes, why? What is stopping you?"

Blaisdell glanced outside where a sudden cloud of dust heralded the arrival of another small twin-rotor plane. It taxied out of sight behind one of the other buildings. "It's too wide-open. I can't leave it open like that."

"You are a mercenary. You buy and sell anything. Why are you hesitating?"

"I sell your country guns; I sell the other side guns," Blaisdell interrupted. "It's a business decision and you know it. I don't approve of South African policies, and you know that too by now. I can't give you an open-ended promise."

"Apartheid?" Keetman asked with a slight smile. "It's a bad policy, Blaisdell, but it is the policy I have to live with right now."

"I can't live with it," Blaisdell said bluntly. "Set some boundaries, Keetman, or turn me down. I need your men, but I can't live that kind of a deal."

Keetman's gaze went out the windows to the low mountain range. "You give me a wide-open promise and I'll give you my word that it will be a personal matter, Blaisdell. I will put that rider on it. It will not involve our countries or their policies."

"A wide-open promise between you and me?" Blaisdell felt uneasy. He didn't feel that a personal debt to Keetman was any less dangerous than business.

"Exactly. Personal."

The mercenary wavered for a second, then nodded agreement. "All right, then. A promise between you and me. I will help you any way I can whenever you ask for my help."

Keetman's smile widened. "Don't be so shocked, Blaisdell. I promise you, you won't need a long spoon to sup with this devil. So, now, we go out and greet the others?"

"Others?"

Keetman stood. "I have been gathering my men since I heard about the first message. That was the last of them arriving on the plane."

Blaisdell rose. "So, it was a trick? You made me promise you anything but you were planning on doing it anyway?" His tone was raw and angry, and he clenched his fist on the back of the sofa.

The man eyed him calmly, his hand back on the gun butt. "I hadn't made up my mind about your men till I talked with you. The troops are here for reasons other than you, Blaisdell."

Blaisdell stared at Keetman, reassessing him. What else had been planned before Blaisdell's call? Why were the troops here? "How many men do you  
have?"

"I'll take ten with me," Keetman replied, opening the door.

"You're planning on going yourself? Why you?" Blaisdell stopped Keetman with a hand on his arm. Outside in the hallway, Blaisdell could hear men's voices rumbling and feet tramping on the tiled floors, mixed with Danielle's laughter. The smells were drifting from the other end of the house. It was obviously where the kitchen was.

Keetman smiled thinly, his eyes showing cold anger. "Captain Tallaz needs to be removed from our area, Blaisdell. Yours aren't the only men he's taken in Angola."

"Some of yours?" Blaisdell inquired as they walked down the hall.

"He rounds up the natives to work in the mines up north for Steshka. No one comes out of there alive, and it's upsetting the people here on the border. Too many families are being sold into slavery." Keetman caught Blaisdell's disbelieving look. "You think that I don't care for the blacks? Some of them support us, you know. I want Tallaz, and I want Steshka's head mounted on my wall, Blaisdell. I just haven't had an excuse to go hunting till now."

"My men are the excuse? Will your government accept that?" Blaisdell countered.

Keetman gave a twisted grin. "My government has already made plans to take care of the Angolan problem, Blaisdell. They dovetail with mine."

The troops coming in, the plans to go north...good God, the South African government was going to invade Angola, Blaisdell surmised in a flash. That was a tidbit worthy of selling to the highest bidder. He saw Keetman watching him closely, and knew that his life was worth a thin dime at that second. Survival came first, over profit. "I think your wife's dinner is ready."

A smile played on Keetman's lips, but didn't reach his eyes. "Dani's a good cook. If you're lucky, she'll have time to bake. By the way, I want a complete rundown on your men so I can identify them."

"Dead or alive."

"Dead or alive," Keetman acknowledged. "I believe Dani has a room upstairs for you, Mr. Blaisdell. Shall we go to dinner?"

A chill ran down Blaisdell's back. He realized that now he was as much a prisoner as any of his men. The only question was what Keetman was going to do with him after the raid now that he knew what the future held.

Griffin knew time was dripping away just like the sweat that was soaking his clothing as he lay tied up in the hut. The room was crowded with the bound men.

He heard the sound of digging outside and the laughing jokes of the soldiers who had been discussing in loud tones their eventual fate, but the mercenaries had been left alone.

Shifting carefully, he looked over the bodies lining the hut's walls. From their pallor and the occasional wheeze, he could tell which ones were still alive and which were sick. He was sure one man was dead judging from the flies that were gathering around his eyes. The hut stank of urine and sweat, fear and despair.

He met the gaze of Bob Williams. who was sitting next to the door. The hot sun had seared one part of his face when it came in the cracks, but the man had been staring outside for hours.

"What do you see, Bob?" Griffin whispered hoarsely, breaking the silence.

Bodies stirred at the sound, but no one bothered to even open their eyes. Dehydration had drained them into lethargy.

The man glanced out the crack. The setting sun painted his face blood red. "Nothin', Griff." His accent was pure Texas. "Only about twenty left."

"No guard?"

"He's asleep. Or looks it."

Griffin nodded. He sat forward, his freed hands coming from behind his back, his nails torn from fighting with ropes. A sharp nail had proven to be a way of sawing manila strands till he could yank them apart. He began working on the ropes around his feet.

Williams watched him carefully, his face expressionless. The others didn't move, their eyes closed, except Alphonse who felt Griffin move.

"What are you doing?" Alphonse asked loudly.

The men in the room stirred, several opening their eyes.

Griffin grabbed Alphonse's tattered shirt and shoving it up against his Adam's apple, pining the thin man to the wooden wall. "I'm getting as many of us out of here as I can. So, shut up!" he whispered back.

"You plan... to go alone?" Alphonse wheezed, his face going red.

"Not if I can help it."

"Set me free!" Alphonse snarled, bubbles of saliva appearing the corner of his lips. "Set me free!"

"Shut up or I'll kill you before they do," Griffin threatened, letting go of him. The man slumped against the way, his hate-filled gaze fastened on Griffin.

Griffin went to work on the ropes and was free a minute later. He stood up, licking his dry lips, and took a tentative step which made him sway. Dehydration made his head spin. He glanced at Williams. "I need back-up but -- "

"Geeze, get back!" Williams cried. "They're coming!"

Griffin stepped back instinctively as the door swung open and the guard stepped inside. Under his feet, he felt a body or something soft and he fell, his shoulders hitting the wooden walls hard. Debris and dust fell from the rafters.

Through the haze, he saw the guard lift his rifle to hit him, and Griffin shoved himself to one side, over Alphonse, who cursed him and kicked out, hitting him in the kneecap. Griffin fell forward, landing on prostrate bodies that didn't move. His head spinning dizzily, he felt hands grab his shoulders and yank him upright. The muzzle of a pistol shoved his chin up.

"Trying to escape?" Tallaz asked casually from the doorway where he stood with one guard while the two others held Griffin. "You don't like the hospitality?"

Griffin watched a large, black spider crawling over one guard's shoulder. "I'd rather have...be having martinis in...Kenya," he croaked.

Tallaz smiled thinly, his gaze moving over the other men who had stirred when he entered. "We came for you. But first, because of this..."

Griffin felt a chill go down his back. "What?"

"Come back for two of them. Any of them," Tallaz said to the guard behind him. "Shoot them."

"I'll tell Blaisdell," Griffin said desperately. "He won't pay for corpses. I'll tell him tonight."

Tallaz stared at him. "If he refuses, you all die in an hour and we leave. Be careful about what you threaten, whore."

"He won't pay for us if we're dead," Griffin warned doggedly. "Keep them alive. All of them. Get us...some water."

The Cuban smiled menacingly. "Bring him along!"

Griffin stumbled over bodies as the two guards dragged him out the door. He meet Williams' gaze for a second as the man watched, but he was yanked out the doorway.

Vultures swayed in the intricate lacework of baobab trees, black shadows against the setting sun and he heard the yap of a jackal calling to others as he stumbled over to the main hut. The soldiers shoved him into the chair and, without a word, handed him a glass of water which he gulped at, spilling the precious fluid in anticipation of their taking it away.

"Call him," Tallaz ordered.

Griffin obeyed.

**Chapter Four**

The sun had already set. The APCs were lined up, soldiers muttering in low tones as they loaded supplies. The air was clear and fresh with evening breezes.

Blaisdell stood on the veranda watching the troops as they prepared for the raid. Beside him was the limping man he had seen earlier, who had been introduced as Parker, one of Keetman's trusted officers who had been badly wounded and invalided out of the regular army.

"You keeping a large troop here?" Blaisdell asked idly.

Parker glanced at him. "Of course. We have to keep up the guard on the towers and clear the roads of land mines."

"But you travel light," Blaisdell observed.

Parker gave a hoarse chuckle. "You haven't seen anything yet, Blaisdell."

From around the two carriers came the Land Rovers, full of armed soldiers. They stopped in front of the house.

"It's time," Keetman said in a low voice from behind Blaisdell and Parker.

"Come back alive, Alec," Danielle whispered.

Blaisdell turned slightly and saw the two of them standing just inside the front door, intimately close. Keetman's arm was around her waist, holding her tightly to him while her hand was grasping his shoulder.

"I always do," Keetman replied with a slight trace of humor in his tone. "Except when I go into Natal."

She smiled. "You haven't taken me camping since then."

"You haven't let me travel without you since then," he retorted in an intimate tone. "Take care of yourself, Dani, and take care of our guest."

"What about our guest?" she asked.

"Parker knows what to do if it's a trap," Keetman answered. He kissed her hard as she hugged him.

Blaisdell felt himself flush, and he turned away. A few seconds later, Keetman brushed past him, settling his hat on his fair hair and putting his machine gun in the Land Rover. The two cars roared off into the night, stopping at the gate, then disappeared into the outskirts of the town.

"He's not taking the personnel carriers?" Blaisdell asked Parker in a puzzled tone.

"Not tonight," Parker replied laconically. "Shouldn't need more than the 'Rovers for the party."

"How long will it take them to get there?"

"According to your map, it should be about....ten or twelve hours. Then they got to sneak up. Tomorrow 'round noon, I'd say," Parker said, pursing his lips. "Depends on travel conditions."

"I hope that's not too late," Blaisdell said under his breath. He smelled Danielle's perfume, then felt her hand on his sleeve.

"It's almost time, isn't it, Paul?" she asked.

"We've got a little more time," Blaisdell answered, clearing his throat.

"Then let's sit in the agterkamer. It's more comfortable there." She led them through the darkened dining room where the antique oil-lamp was reflected off the polished rosewood table by the light of the stars. The smell of herbs floated in through the high-sash windows that overlooked the runway in the back.

The shutters had been opened to let in the evening breeze. She opened one of the bookshelves to show a modern radio transmitter set in a secret alcove, and tuned it to the frequency that Blaisdell had given her. She retreated to the leather chair where Keetman had been sitting and picked up a shirt from a basket of mending on the polished hardwood floor. She winced unexpectedly as she sat, then shifted position. Her hand went to her stomach.

Blaisdell frowned. Was she sick? Food poisoning? Or... could she be pregnant? If she was, why was Keetman letting her be up here on the front lines? Was he crazy? He opened his mouth to ask, but the sound of firing outside make everyone turn to the window.

"Just shooting shadows," Parker said laconically. "Happens every night."

Blaisdell looked at his watch, then around the group. "Any time now."

"You told your radioman that you would speak with them directly?" Parker asked. He was polishing the stock of one of the rifles, his stiff right leg held out in front of him.

"He's out of the loop now," Blaisdell acknowledged. "It's up to us."

"He's not in the area?" she questioned delicately, threading a needle.

"Ivory to Tusk, Ivory to Tusk..." the voice that suddenly came out of the radio sounded hoarse, dry and more than a little scared.

Danielle raised an eyebrow. "You're Tusk, Paul? I thought you were the Falcon?"

"Not on this raid. Now, I'm Tusk. That sounds like Griffin." Blaisdell took up the microphone and pressed the stud. "Ivory, this is Tusk."

"Tusk!" Griffin's voice sounded relieved. "What..." That was obviously directed at someone else. There was the sound of a scuffle, and a raised voice. The radio crackled and another man's voice came over the line. "Tusk, this is Viva. Have you the money?"

Danielle began to sew the button on a white cotton shirt, her head cocked as she listened. She raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"Tallaz," Blaisdell mouthed at her. "I've got it. How are we going to work this out?"

"Move one half to the bank account number I gave you last time," Tallaz ordered. "I will tell you where to find your men. When you have them, I expect you to put the rest in."

Blaisdell raised an eyebrow. "You expect me to come for them personally?"

"You must come yourself. I insist and I have all the cards, Blaisdell. There is a radio there. Instruct your contact in Johannesburg to put the rest of the money in before you leave with your men," Tallaz agreed. "I will be watching you. "

"What's to keep you from shooting me as soon as I do?" Blaisdell asked dryly.

Parker's hands slowed as he polished gun. He watched Blaisdell. He looked like he was judging the mercenary. A slowly growing smile said he approved.

Blaisdell ran his hand through his brown hair. His eyes narrowed in anger but his tone didn't change. "I will put a delay on the delivery. The money will not be released for twenty-four hours till my men are safely back in South Africa. Anything before then, and the money doesn't go."

"What's to keep you from not sending it?" Tallaz said mockingly.

"The same thing that'll keep you from shooting us in the back. Our mutual good words," Blaisdell said acidly. "Let me speak to Ivory, Tallaz."

"I give you a day to get here. I start killing them at daybreak on the next day." The radio crackled, then went silent.

"You've got a day, eh?" Parker said after a minute. "Sounds like our cue."

"Keetman should arrive in time with the commandos," Blaisdell commented, reattaching the microphone to the hook.

Parker frowned, his hands wiping the oil from the stock. "I hope that no one else heard this, Danielle. If Steshka knew that Alec was out there with only ten men, we'd lose him for sure."

Blaisdell was shocked at the callousness in Parker's tone, then he realized, looking at Danielle, that she and Parker had no doubts that Keetman was going to return safely, with or without the prisoners. Parker's comment was just a statement of fact.

"Steshka has kept quiet ever since the raid which cost him the latest shipment of miners," she said sweetly. "I don't think he will try anything again too soon."

"He's always out there," Parker asserted, snapping the gun back together, and limping over to the gun rack. He hung it in an empty spot. "He also hires mercenaries."

Her gaze was fastened on Blaisdell. "Then, Mr. Parker, do you think Alec is going into one of Steshka's traps, baited by Tallaz and Mr. Blaisdell here?" Her tone was poisonously polite, and Blaisdell met her eyes with aplomb. He knew that this had to come up as soon as Keetman had said he would go after the lost men. It did look like a trap, a mercenary begging the military to break the rules, but Keetman had taken the risk and left. Blaisdell knew he probably wouldn't live long enough to see another sunset if Keetman was walking into a trap.

"As far as I know, there is no trap for anyone but me," Blaisdell said, his throat dry. "You heard Tallaz."

Parker nodded. "Yep. You could be working with him."

"We'll know soon enough," Danielle murmured, biting the thread off. She shook out the shirt. "Here, Parker, this one's yours, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am," the soldier said with a grin.

She tossed it to him. "Try to bring back more buttons next time you go to Johannesburg, please? I'm running out supplying the troops."

Parker tossed the shirt over his arm, and saluted. "Yes, ma'am. I'd better check the perimeter. Goodnight."

"Sleep well, Parker."

"You do their sewing?" Blaisdell asked as the door shut behind Parker.

"It keeps me occupied," she said placidly, picking up another shirt. "I like to sew. I made most of the curtains in this house."

Blaisdell glanced at the blue-rose pattered curtains that flanked the meshed windows. "What did you call this room? The aggerkam..."

"The agterkamer. It's a term for the private area off the dining room," she explained. "This house was built early in the last century. We rented it when Alec was sent here."

"You've done a lot of work on it then."

"It's our home for now. My parents own a farm in the Cape area. Robert is there."

"Robert?" Blaisdell crossed over to the couch and settled into its embrace. The leather was worn in spots. "Who's Robert?"

"My son. He's four," Danielle replied placidly.

"And you're here?" the mercenary asked shocked.

She glanced at him reprovingly. "I don't let Alec go out alone. Robert loves his grandmother and they are fine on the farm."

"But this is the danger zone!"

She threaded the needle and picked up a button. "We're all in danger, Paul. Do you see America as totally safe?"

Blaisdell struggled with his reply. "It doesn't have the military on its streets," he finally said. "This is a war zone, Danielle."

"I love my husband, Paul. I won't leave him to die here," she answered.

The mercenary leaned forward. "Danielle. Do you really think I am leading Keetman into a trap?"

Danielle met his gaze unwaveringly. "No. Alec didn't think so either. But if it is a trap, then it shuts on us all, Paul. Parker has his orders and I grew up hunting gazelle for the dinner table."

"You'll hunt me down like a dog. I know. My life depends on Keetman's return," Blaisdell concluded bluntly.

"Isn't that what you expected?" she said in a gentle tone. "Is that a truck?" Danielle listened, her hands poised over her mending.

"Why? Are you expecting someone?" Blaisdell asked.

"SWAPO came through a month ago and tried to burn the place. Alec thought it was Tallaz and some others, but I'm not certain," she replied with calm assurance. "I talked with some of the natives and it didn't sound like the Angolans, so it's probably the SWAPO."

"How do you keep the politics straight?" Blaisdell asked curiously.

She smiled distantly. "I try to stay at peace with all sides of this war. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't with Alec. I wasn't going to let him go into the borderlands alone again. A couple of years ago someone hired a mercenary to kill him. Otaya and I got there just after Alec was shot in the chest. We caught the leader of the mercenaries, a man named Rykker, but we needed his help to get Alec back to the border so -- "

"So you killed him later?" Blaisdell questioned. "After you got out?"

"Who? Rykker?" She smiled. "No, he's still paying ransom money to me. He's rather a nice man, really. Of course if Alec had died.... I intend to be here if he comes back wounded again, to care for him. Close the blinds, Paul, it's getting cold."

Blaisdell nodded and obeyed. "To care for him? Are you a nurse?"

"My medical degree is from Groote Schuur Hospital in Cape Town, and I have ample experience in," she stared him directly in the eye, "war wounds."

He nodded. "I think you're in the right place, Doctor Keetman."

"Let's have a drink," Danielle offered, eyeing him. "I don't expect to hear from Alec till tomorrow at the best. You'd better get some rest."

Blaisdell shook his head. "I can't sleep."

"Then tell me about `Ivory.' Who is that young man?"

"`Ivory'? Kermit Griffin. Griff. I met him... a while ago. Been training him ever since."

"Kermit?" she chuckled softly as she pulled out a piece of cloth and started to sew. It looked like the beginnings of one of the cushion covers. "Did his mother know Roosevelt?"

Blaisdell stared at her for a second, then laughed. "I don't think so. It's more likely that he's nicknamed after the frog than after Theodore Roosevelt's son."

"The frog? Oh, from the television show. I see. How funny. How old is he?"

"About...I don't know. Seems older."

"He's important to you," she murmured. "Well, Alec will bring him back."

"Dead or alive," Blaisdell muttered.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part One of the story (chapters 1-3) is on the South African border in 1981.

Griffin would have agreed with Danielle's sentiments if he had heard them, but he was a little more occupied with staying alive. After he had reached Blaisdell, Tallaz had waved to the guards to take him outside and, despite his fighting, they'd dragged him over to the middle of the canyon not twenty feet from the water hole, where four stakes were pounded into the ground. 

One whack in the kidneys and he collapsed on the ground, wimpering in pain. He was staked out on the hard-dried mud, his arms and legs spread-eagled, and, with one last kick in the side, the soldiers withdrew, leaving him in the growing darkness.

To one side he saw the lights of the hut where Tallaz and his second-in-command, must be from the sound of voices. Every now and then, he heard footsteps as the guards patrolled the perimeter, and an occasional groan from the prisoners' hut, but the night was filled with the sounds of Africa and the persistent buzzing of the black flies that had attacked him as soon as he was prone. He was glad his hair was long; it kept the insects out of his ears. 

The sharp yelp of a hyena, the roar of a lion or cheetah among the dry grasses that grew to every side except on the hard-worn path, or the sound of hooves that could be anything from a herd of oryx to wildebeests going to drink in the safety of the darkness, conspired to keep him trembling with fear, though the tight rope around his wrists and ankles kept him virtually immobile. 

After midnight, he sucked in the damp mist rising off the water, but the dampness seeped through his clothing. He shivered as the night stretched onward and the temperature plunged. 

He flexed his fingers and feet against the bonds but couldn't free himself. Finally, he closed his eyes and relaxed, realizing there was nothing he could do right now. He'd have to wait for something to happen. That would probably be his death, he realized. He heard rustling in the undergrowth and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a gazelle step out of the grasses, its head turning both ways as if sensing danger. After a few minutes, it crept forward cautiously, almost over him, and bent its head to drink the water. He heard it lapping up the liquid, then it moved closer to him, finally sniffing at his face and hair, the tongue coming out to touch his temple. He turned his head and the gazelle snorted, rearing back. The head went up abruptly, and it inhaled the slight breeze coming down the canyon, then with a wild leap, sprang over Griffin, who was cringing as much as he could and took off as the sentry fired several times. He missed and the gazelle disappeared into the canyon's darkness.

A door flew open and Tallaz appeared, calling angrily to the guard. After about fifteen minutes of haranguing him, Tallaz turned back to his hut, sparing the spread-eagled man only a scant glance of disinterest. 

Griffin sighed and licked his lips. Looking up, he admired the beauty of the Milky Way as it stretched across the sky like a pearl-studded scarf blotted only by the occasional flight of bats. He saw the ominous shape of the vultures sitting in the nearby trees, swaying back and forth in the light breeze. For a second, he thought he saw something else in the tree, but, when he squinted, he only the bulky nests and the birds. Out of the darkness came the roar of lions but it was distant. Griffin doubted that the cats would dare to come into the canyon. 

After a minute or two, Tallaz turned out the light in his hut, and the darkness was complete except for the stars. 

The feeling of something licking his forearm made him turn his head. The glowing eyes of some animal, maybe a hyena from the size, met his gaze. Its breath was hot on his forearm as it sniffed again, then licked it tentatively. 

Griffin froze, feeling himself turn to a terrified pillar of salt. The animal could bite him and give him rabies. It could tear into him and eat him right here, it could have killer fleas, it could... The incongruity of the fleas struck him abruptly, and he gave a hysterical giggle. He was going to die tomorrow, and he was worried about fleas? 

It backed off a step and yelped. He could see the bristling tail go up as it yelped again, to be answered by several other yelps as more hyenas came to  
join it.

Griffin shut his eyes and prayed that it would be fast. In his mind's eye he could see the hyenas tearing into the body of the antelope he had killed, the muzzles red with fresh blood.

Crack! A bullet zipped out of the night and the hyena yelped, its furry body tumbling over Griffin's arm to land in the water hole. The other hyenas scattered, then bounded toward their companion as she limped out of the water, yelping angrily. They growled and, despite his fear, he opened his eyes to see them looking back at him. They moved closer.

Tallaz's door burst open and he rushed out in his bare feet, his gun held ready. Soldiers burst out of the other huts, holding their rifles ready.

The hyenas scattered into the brush or up the canyon as Tallaz fired at one of them, narrowly missing Griffin's bound left wrist. 

"Damned beasts!" Tallaz raged, stalking to the guard who was holding up his hands placatingly. "I told you no more shooting!"

"Not me!" the man babbled. "Not me, Captain!"

"There's no one else out here," Tallaz snarled. "Give me that gun!" He snatched it from the man's hand, and stopped dead. "This barrel's cold."

"Not me, sir!" the guard pleaded.

"Then who..." Tallaz looked around in sudden suspicion. He thrust the gun back into the man's hand. "Keep good watch."

"Yes, sir," the man said humbly.

Tallaz walked over to his troops and ordered them to start a search of the undergrowth around the canyon, looking for anything suspicious. The men looked dubious as they followed his orders, but they searched for an hour before finally giving up and straggling back into camp. They filed their reports with Tallaz, who had retreated to his hut. Three hours later, the camp was once again dark and silent.

 _If it wasn't them,_ Griffin thought, _then who the HELL just shot that hyena?_ His curiosity was aroused despite his dehydration. He shook his head absently and felt a cloud of flies shift from off his face. 

A large bug crawled out of his dark hair down his face. He didn't move as it reached his chin, then climbed down his neck and into his clothing. He knew about the insect life of South Africa, some of it was poisonous as well as vicious. He hoped this one wouldn't be. He wanted to see dawn. 

The sounds in the undergrowth no longer frightened him and the feeling of the bugs as they crawled over or around him no longer made him worry. He finally reconciled himself to the fact that he was going to die tomorrow, really die, not just be reported dead as he had been in Afghanistan. He thought about his family, his ex-wife, and Blaisdell, who was rumored to never let his men die without a fight. Before he knew it, he had fallen asleep. 

Blaisdell started out of a fitful sleep when the first sunbeam hit his closed eyelids. The sun was shining through the study blinds as it rose over the mountain range. He could feel the dampness of the mist as it evaporated off the leather chairs and burned off the land. It was going to be another scorcher of a day.

He rose from the soft chair and stretched, feeling his bones crackle and pop. He slid on his jacket and went to the door, turned the knob silently and went across the dining room. He passed the staircase leading upstairs to the personal bedrooms, including the unused one that had been made up for him.

The kitchen was empty except for traces of flour and a used bowl lying on a counter, and the smell of freshly baking bread on the air. Heat rose from the oven nearby. Danielle must have been up even earlier. 

Blaisdell went outside on the iron staircase, and stretched again, reveling in the cool morning air. The atmosphere was cleared of the dust and dirt. He thanked God he was still alive to see the dawn. He had known too many close chances to take life for granted. He heard soldiers talking in the other buildings, their voices coming out partly opened windows, but the trucks were unguarded. He thought of walking toward them, but Parker came around the corner, his gun cradled in his arm, his face showing the effects of a sleepless night. Another man followed him, face shaded with a broad-brimmed hat, then disappeared around the other side of the house.

"How are you?" Parker asked quietly, climbing up beside Blaisdell.

"Stiff. There was nothing from Keetman last night."

"Didn't expect to hear yet. He'll call when the job's done...not before," the man commented, staring out over the waving grassland. "He'll not be in position for a couple of hours, yet."

"Been with him long?" Blaisdell asked curiously.

Parker smiled knowingly. "A long time."

"You're an old-timer up here, eh?"

"Yes." Parker suddenly pointed to something moving in the distance. "Look!"

Blaisdell strained to see what had caught his attention. "What?"

"Springbok and oryx. A herd of them." The graceful deer-like gazelles galloped across the road and disappeared into the grassland. The sound of their hooves echoed behind them. "Must have been scared by a cat. It's a rare sight, an entire herd, now," Parker said with a sigh. "I wonder sometimes how the wildlife survives this war."

"There's been a lot of killing?"

"Aye. On both sides and not only of the wildlife," Parker replied sadly.

"Mrs. Keetman said that Keetman was injured -- "

Parker stifled a grunt as he eased the gun down to the ground. "It was a bad one too. Ambush up in Natal about five years ago."

"You were there?"

"Nope. He was on holiday, him, Danielle, and his scout, Otaya. Barely made it out alive that time."

"I'm surprised," Blaisdell questioned delicately, "that she's up here. Is she pregnant?"

Parker glanced at him. "Where'd you get that idea?"

"The way she was sitting last night."

"Ah. Yes, she is." Parker said reluctantly. The soldier grinned. "I don't think she's told Alec yet."

"You didn't tell him?"

"I wouldn't get between them. It's her business, after all. So, here we are, one big happy family," he concluded under his breath, looking out at the town which was starting to stir. "Besides, if she's here, she keeps Alec from going mad waiting around for something to happen.”

"`Mad'?" Blaisdell probed. "Didn't seem that kind of a man."

"He's had his moments." Parker eyed him critically. "Are you married?"

Blaisdell looked taken aback. "Married?"

"Aye?"

"Well...yes."

"Your wife with you wherever you're set up?" Parker asked bluntly.

"No. She's back...home." 

"Ah."

"We've got two kids....she's blind," Blaisdell felt goaded by the man's flat tone. "I couldn't bring her along."

"Blind. That would be a problem to handle," Parker said in a more sympathetic tone. "You have insurance for them?"

"On me? Sure."

"Then they're set up for life," Parker commented in a flat tone, then smiled broadly as Blaisdell turned to him in sudden suspicion. "Money can't replace you, but it might help."

"I don't plan to die," Blaisdell replied mildly, his dark eyes meeting the other's gaze with equanimity. "How does Keetman plan to get my men back? Physically, I mean? He only took the Land Rovers and they were packed with troops." 

"Depends on how many are still alive, doesn't it?" Parker said bluntly accepting the change of subject. "He usually has it planned out. If not, he'll call for backup."

"They could already be dead," Blaisdell said pessimistically. "My men. I hate waiting."

"Well, you might ask yourself how you got into this?" Parker questioned, startling the older man. "Keetman told me that someone betrayed your men. Who did it?"

"I don't know."

Parker tapped him lightly on the arm with the muzzle of the rifle. "Well, you'd better find out, Blaisdell, or get out of the business you're in. If you can't trust your people, you might as well kill yourself."

Blaisdell ran his hand through his dark hair. "I know. I've been thinking about that."

The man nodded. "I'm going to wash up before I raid the larder. Come inside. Danielle baked some _koeksisters._ "

"What's that?"

"Fried dough with sugar syrup."

"Sounds delicious."

"Sweet. Very sticky sweet."

Griffin was beyond being fried -- he was broiled, on the way to being charred. The morning fog had long ago burned off and the dry air was sucking what little moisture the sun hadn't gotten. His throat was raw and dry. He tried swallowing and it hurt. He could feel the black flies landing on his face.  
Cracking open one eyelid, he watched the soldiers eating their lunches and swigging at their canteens, occasionally looking at him and laughing. 

_Bastards._ Two guards stood outside the prison hut. He couldn't tell if anyone was still alive in there. 

He suddenly wished that he had died the night before, even if that meant being eaten by hyenas. At least, he wouldn't be going out of his head from the heat and thirst. So much for wanting to see the sun rise again. 

By midday, it was overhead, baking him to a graham cracker. Blessed relief arrived in the form of a shadow that fell on his face. He looked up to see Tallaz standing over him. 

"Good morning," Tallaz said politely. "I have been speaking with Blaisdell."

Griffin waited. He didn't trust his voice to work. 

"He says that he is on the way. So, I will have to move you so he doesn't get suspicious before he falls into my trap."

"Trap?" Griffin croaked. 

Tallaz smiled. "Paul Blaisdell has a lot of influence in the world of arms trafficking. I wonder how much people would pay me to get rid of him."

Griffin's cracked lips tightened. "He's...not a king..."

"His death would leave a power vacuum that I could exploit," the Cuban mused. "Some people won't deal with me or my country because of Paul Blaisdell's influence. Someday they'll realize that commerce is multi-national."

"Was this...a trap for him?" Griffin whispered.

"Not entirely," Tallaz conceded. "I am simply taking advantage of the opportunity. I'm sure, as a mercenary, you understand."

Griffin closed his eyes. "He'll...win."

"I doubt it. I have all of you...and he won't leave you behind. He should know when to cut his losses. But he won't be here for some hours. You should be dead by then."

"Who did...it?" Griffin questioned painfully. "Who sold us...out?" 

Tallaz laughed. "Take a look at your missing friends, and ask yourself who was the likely spy. Something to think about, eh?"

Sunlight burned Griffin's face as Tallaz had walked back to his tent where his second-in-command was waiting. The soldiers stood up as he passed, then relaxed against the wooden huts. One man settled down for a nap, his hat over his eyes. 

Crack! Griffin didn't even flinch this time as a bullet cut over him, followed by a fusillade of bullets. Other shots came from around the granite boulders on the upper edge of the canyon where it curved into the mountains.

He opened his eyes to see the some of Tallaz's men start firing randomly up the canyon. 

Griffin closed his eyelids and waited for one of the bullets to kill him. A bullet scored his thigh.

The gunfire stopped. For a moment, there was silence, then the sound of a thump, and running feet down the canyon or out of the undergrowth as the attackers came out of hiding. Several men jumped over his prostrate body, heading across the hard-packed ground at a trot from the sound. 

Other footsteps, these slower, came towards him, then stopped above him. "Damn Tallaz," muttered a man. Griffin felt the coolness of a shadow fall on his face, then a hand waved away the cloud of flies which buzzed indignantly. Fingers touched the side of his neck, checking for a pulse. Griffin sighed softly and his swollen tongue touched his dry lips.

"Still here. Good," the man murmured. "But not for long unless we get you moved. This sun's turned you into hardtack." Griffin heard the soft English accent. Who were these people? He tried to look, but his eyelids wouldn't move.

"We got the troop, Captain. Maybe a few escaped into the brush but not many," said another voice. "Most of them didn't have time to get their guns."

"Tallaz?"

"He got away, Captain."

"Find him," the voice said decisively. "Without him, we don't have anything. How about the men?"

"The prisoners? Probably in the hut they staked out," the soldier replied. "The guards went down on the first blast."

"See to them. Make sure this one gets care, Leet."

"Captain!" another voice called. "Better come see this."

Again the sun burned against Griffin's eyelids. He groaned at the agony and, with a tremendous effort, he turned his head and opened his eyes a crack to watch what was going on. 

The officer wore light sandy khakis, stained from hiding in the underbrush, and well-used combat boots. A long combat knife hung from one side. Beside him, a short black man, dressed in darker clothes, waved at the inside of the prisoners' hut. The bodies of the two guards had been rolled to one side, and a couple of the attackers were going through the pockets.

"How many are still alive, Otaya?" the captain asked the black man. Stepping back, he shook his head.

"Not many, Captain Keetman," he replied. Otaya went inside while the captain turned and surveyed the canyon, with its one truck on one side and an American jeep parked near the road. A couple of the attacking troopers came out of the underbrush, leading a couple of Tallez's men while others were stalking the survivors. There was the sound of occasional gunfire and the splashing of water as the new arrivals drank from the water barrels. 

Leet dripped some water between Griffin's parched lips. The staked man felt like he'd just gone to heaven. The soldier sliced the ropes staking Griffin out. He moved the prisoner's arms gently till they were in the normal position, then went to his feet. After freeing them, he dripped a little more water between Griffin's lips. It ran down his stubbly chin and pan-fried skin. Leet doused a piece of cloth in water, and wiped Griffin's eyes, the water seeping into the tiny crack between upper and lower lids, then down his lips. Griffin licked them. "More..."

The harsh sound of Land Rovers heralded a pair of them coming down the same road where Griffin and Alphonse had driven their trucks into a trap. They stopped and the drivers hopped out.

"We've got eight still alive, Captain Keetman," Otaya said coming out of the hut. "The heat's got the others."

Keetman shook his head in disgust. "Nine alive including the boy out there. You'd better start loading them up. We have to be out of here in an hour."

"What about Tallaz, Captain?" Otaya inquired. "Are we going to let him get away?"

"He won't get far without a jeep," Keetman commented callously. "If the patrols don't find him, the sun will. I'm going to see if I can find some explanation."

Keetman walked beyond Griffin's view, probably over to the main hut judging from the sound. A couple of the soldiers came over to help with the rescue, while others handcuffed or tied the prisoners.

The first man they brought out was gasping for water, which the soldiers provided. They loaded him into the truck which was driven up. They worked efficiently, putting six men on the floor, from the sound.

Keetman walked out of Tallaz's hut, his hands filled with papers, and stopped them before they put Williams into the truck. "Can you speak?" he asked abruptly. "Any of you still conscious? Who are you?"

Williams' head nodded slightly. "William...s..."

"Which one of you is Griffin?" Keetman barked. 

Williams jerked his head toward the prone man.

Keetman looked over, and frowned. "Let's get him to the jeep, Leet! Otaya, where are you?" He walked over towards Griffin.

The abandoned jeep's engine roared to life. The jeep lurched forward, Tallaz at the wheel, heading for the canyon's exit. 

The troopers opened fire on the jeep. The wind screen was blown away by bullets as the jeep lurched to one side. It barreled towards the captain and the truck then swerved to the right. Griffin realized it was now headed straight for him. 

Leet who had given him the water was firing consistently at the driver. Finally, he threw the gun aside, and with a heave, rolled Griffin out of the way, jumping after him, as the jeep ran over where they had been, then landed nose-down in the water hole. The hot exhaust, a shower of pebbles, and the sandy dust coated Griffin's face. He coughed, feeling the agony in his throat.

The ground shook as soldiers ran up. "Tallaz!" Otaya called, slapping his fist on the bumper in anger. 

"Is he alive, Otaya?" asked Keetman.

"No, sir!" 

"Damn! Silly sod's gone and broke his neck in the fall. I wanted to question him," Keetman said callously. "Guess we'll just bury him out here. He's already carved out a plot, so just put him in that. Now, what about Griffin?"

"He's still alive?" Otaya asked.

"He'd better be. Blaisdell was explicit that he wanted this one back. I think he's unconscious. Get him into the Rover," Keetman ordered, "along with those other two. Otaya, this is proof," the captain added with a rustle of the papers as he flipped pages, "that Tallaz was working for our friend, Steshka."

"The weapons?"

"Are on the way to the diamond mines. At least, we won't have to worry about SWAPO shooting us with them."

"Should we try to get them back, Captain?"

"They're long gone."

"Captain, does it say who told Tallaz about the arms shipment?" Otaya inquired.

"No," Keetman said in disgust. "Blaisdell will have to find out for himself." 

Griffin passed out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part One of the story (chapters 1-3) is on the South African border in 1981.

Blaisdell wandered into the agterkamer to find it empty. He felt almost light-headed with euphoria from Keetman's message about the rescued men. Keetman had burned the mercenaries' camp, leaving the bodies unrecognizable, and was bringing the survivors back in the truck as well as the two Land Rovers that had carried the troops northward. Keetman said Tallaz hadn't survived the fight. There had been no repercussions, so far, from other roving bands of mercenaries on either side of the border, and Keetman's group, having made unexpected good time on the way up, was planning on being back at the farmhouse within the hour. The full moon lighted the road almost as well as the burning sun had hours before. 

The phone rang on Keetman's desk but someone answered one of the other extensions.

Blaisdell sat down with a book in his hand and absently flipped through the pages, though his mind was far away. He wondered who had sold his men down the river for money.

Could it have been Holms or Wilkins? Either of them could have sold out the mission. Before he had driven to the Keetmans, Blaisdell had confirmed that Wilkins was still in the hospital in Cape Town. Holms had vanished into the outback up near the Natal.

"Whoever sold the deal out must have been paid. `Follow the money,'" Blaisdell murmured. "I'll have to find out who did it. Can't trust anyone outside of the survivors, though. Whoever did this was probably intelligent enough not go out on that raid."

He rubbed his hands over his face, and slumped in the chair. What the hell was he going to do now? He suddenly felt that he should be out of this business, that it was for younger men, but he was in too deeply now. Maybe he should simply start to pull out. Find a good deep hole to bury himself in.  
Finally, a half hour, he gave up on his musing. There were just too many suspects. The men he'd bought the guns from, the men who had given him the trucks and loaded the weapons on the trucks, his own men and then, of course, the people who were supposed to get the guns. Anywhere along the way, someone could have talked. Blaisdell looked down at the book in his hands. Failed Missions of World War II. How appropriate. A failed mission was as convoluted as any successful war campaign. 

The sound of engines rose above the breeze. He abandoned the book and went into the dining room.

Danielle and Parker met him with matching worried expressions. "Get upstairs," Parker ordered when Blaisdell opened the door. "Don't come down till we call."

Out the window they saw a single Land Rover raising a cloud of dust as it approached the house.

"Only one jeep," Blaisdell mused. "What about the other one?"

"Get upstairs!" Parker snapped again, looking out the window. "That's not Alec, that's General Welch!"

"He called a while ago, Paul. He doesn't know that Alec is on a mission," Danielle said with a worried expression in her eyes. "He's coming about other business."

"I'll wait in my room, then," Blaisdell said. His mind raced as he walked up the staircase to the second story, and then, impulsively went into Keetman's bedroom. The tall windows there overlooked the front drive while the windows in his room had looked towards the mountains over the trucks and small airstrip.

The room smelled of camphor wood and honeysuckle. He tripped over the worn red carpet on the floor, leaving a rumpled edge of fringe. A massive wooden four-poster bed draped in mosquito netting dominated the room. 

He reached through the heavy white curtains to unlatch the center window. Even through the shutters, he could hear what was going on outside.

He cracked open the window in time to hear the car stop and the door open.

"Where's Captain Keetman?" the man demanded arrogantly. 

"Not here, General," Danielle replied softly. Blaisdell strained to hear her voice. 

"What do you mean he's not here?" Welch snarled. "We're moving into Angola in forty-eight hours and I have orders for him."

Blaisdell pursed his lips. Keetman must not have known the attack would come so soon, or he wouldn't have gone into Angola after Blaisdell's men. As it was, he'd have less than a day to prepare for the new attack. The man would be exhausted.

"He's out chasing guerrillas," Parker inserted. "Took a troop out yesterday."

"He didn't tell me he was going!" Welch sounded enraged. Even from the window, Blaisdell heard him suck in a deep breath, then let it out with a huge  
sigh. "That's out of line, very out of line. I'll take your word for it, Parker."

"Yes, sir!" Parker's voice was devoid of accent, but Blaisdell sensed an edge of contempt.

"Won't you come in and have some tea, General?" Danielle offered with a lack of enthusiasm. "Perhaps your driver -- "

"My son, Christiaan," Welch stated flatly, "will be staying here tonight to brief Captain Keetman."

"I'm not sure that's appropriate, sir," Parker said flatly. "We're not sure when the captain will be back. Mrs. Keetman is alone here."

"He'll be staying," the general said bitingly, "'til Keetman arrives. Should Mrs. Keetman need any protection, I'm sure Chris will be available to help you, Parker. The troops will be here by late this afternoon, and I'll bring Keetman's final orders myself."

"Is your son planning to go on the raid as well?" Danielle inquired.

"I'll be taking him back to town with me," Welch replied casually. "There will be more than enough in the way of troops to do the job."

And Daddy's boy will be safe, Blaisdell thought scornfully.

"Christiaan!" Welch called.

Blaisdell could barely see the car door open, and a man stepped out. He looked about the same age as Griffin, had the same dark hair, though it was smoothly combed back behind his ears. 

"Yes, sir!" Christiaan said crisply.

"You will stay here until Captain Keetman returns and brief him."

"Not in here, he won't," Parker cut in lazily. "I'll take you to the barracks where you can wait for him."

"In the house," the general ordered coldly. 

Blaisdell imagined the unpleasant smile on Parker's face. "This is a private residence, General. The Captain doesn't allow strangers in here."

Only invited mercenaries, thought Blaisdell with a slight smile. 

"You're out of line, Captain Parker!" Welch shot hotly.

"I'm a pensioner and retired, and you can't reach me, General," Parker said lazily. "I'm also in charge of the safety of the house."

"I'll go to the barracks," Christiaan cut in with a determined tone, "and wait. I would not wish to put Mrs. Keetman in any uncomfortable situations, sir." 

The boy's tone was hard and Blaisdell grinned. Young Welch had backbone even if he had an overly protective father. 

The general sniffed loudly. "Then you will call me when Captain Keetman returns?"

"I will be happy to call you," Danielle cut in. "When he comes back."

"Then I'll be hearing from you in the morning, Christiaan," his father said sternly. "Goeie nag."

"Good night," she replied.

They all watched the car drive around the circle and disappear down the road.

Blaisdell heard Danielle sigh.

"Are you all right?" Parker asked with some urgency.

"I'm just a little tired," she said in an exhausted tone. "I'll go upstairs and rest. Christiaan..."

"My father wants to take me back with him. I plan to ask the Captain if I can go on the raid," the young man spoke up with firm determination. "I'll go to the barracks now."

Blaisdell's eyebrows went up. Christiaan Welch was either a diplomat or an innocent. The upcoming action was going to be a major raid and probably very dangerous. Since the boy knew Daddy was going to drag him back to safety, whatever he said could be discounted... or it could be true. Was he really bucking for a military career or just looking good in front of the real military?

"I'll take you around. I'll be back in a minute, Dani," Parker said flatly.

"Go ahead, Parker."

Blaisdell heard two sets of feet go toward the back of the house, and the front door closed. He realized that any moment now, Danielle would be in here. He was certain that she wasn't going to be happy that he had invaded the sanctity of the bedroom. He glanced around the room, finding no place for a man of his bulk to hide, except the dressing room to one side. He closed the window, latched it, then went over to the wooden door and opened it.  
It was crammed with dresses to the right, Keetman's shirts and pants on the left. Shoes littered the floor, while boxes filled any empty space. It wouldn't do. 

Opening the hall door, he heard her footsteps dragging up the stairs. From the sound, she was still behind the bend out of his sight.

He slid out into the hallway and went over to his door which was opposite. He opened the door, then closed it firmly, letting the sound of the closing ring down the hallway. 

She came around the corner, looking tired, one hand on the wall giving her support.

"Are you all right?" he said with real concern.

"Just tired," she replied with a weak smile. "General Welch has left his son to spy on Alec. We're going to have to be careful the boy doesn't learn anything about the raid." 

"Then it wasn't sanctioned," Blaisdell commented dryly. "I had a feeling that the Captain was acting outside his orders." 

She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes for a second. "I feel ill," she confessed. "Paul, Alec had many reasons for the raid. If you want them, ask him."

He stepped forward as she swayed. "You'd better lie down, Mrs. Keetman. Let me help you to your room."

"Thank you." She leaned on him as they walked. With his free hand, he opened the door.

The accusing edge of the rumpled carpet stood out as they looked into the room. Blaisdell prayed that she wouldn't notice, but from the expression on her face, Danielle realized that he had been inside the bedroom. Her body stiffening, she stepped away from him, her face full of reserve...and a little fear. 

It took a second for Blaisdell to realize that he'd lost the thin layer of trust he'd had with the woman, and a flush of red heated his ears. 

"I'll just lie down. Good night, Paul. I think you'd better stay inside until Alec arrives." Her eyes searched his face, and his evident guilty expression made  
her soften her tone. "It's only to keep you out of young Welch's way."

"So I overheard," he replied, tacitly admitting that he had been eavesdropping from her windows. "Get some rest."

She gave a weak smile. "Good night, Paul."

"Good night, Mrs. Keetman." He closed her door and headed across the hall.

Behind him, he heard a click as the door to the Keetman bedroom was locked.

Blaisdell was dozing on his narrow bed, thinking, when he heard the characteristic drone of Land Rovers' engines. He ran out of his room and down the stairs to see Danielle had beaten him. Her dressing gown waved in the breeze stirred by the dawn that was lightening the sky. The car parked, and Keetman stepped out, a tired sand-crusted, soldier. They hugged and kissed passionately, as the other soldier in the front seat clambered out and went around to the back, where a soldier was hunched upright, a rifle cradled in his arms. 

"I've brought a couple back here, Dani," Keetman said seriously. "They're too ill to send in the truck. I've detailed some of the troop to take the others to hospital in Windhoek."

"What was their problem?" Blaisdell asked urgently. 

"Dehydration and hunger," Keetman replied, his arm still around Danielle. "These three need some extra help."

She moved away to look at the wounded men, as Parker and the driver took down the back door, and the guard clambered out, muttering about stiffness.  
Blaisdell moved in closer, gasping slightly as the men were brought out.

Alphonse was raving quietly in his sleep, shifting every now and then. His skin was covered with sweat. 

Beside him, Bob Williams looked dead, his skin livid with purple-red bruises. Only the regular rise and fall of his chest told Blaisdell that he was actually asleep. It looked like his nose was broken.

Griffin was the worst. Sun-flamed skin and shallow breathing said he was dehydrated and had heat stroke. His hands and face were bruised from being beaten, swollen from fly bites, and his chest seemed to barely move beneath the blanket.

"Take them all inside," she ordered sharply, pulling tight her dressing gown. She turned to Blaisdell. "Are they all yours?"

"Yes," he said abruptly. "This is Kermit Griffin, that one's Williams, and the other one is Costca." 

"I'll go upstairs. Parker, fill Alec in on our guests."

"Guests?" Keetman inquired with a raised eyebrow. "Paul, take the front." They carried Griffin inside the house, up the stairs to the bedroom next to Blaisdell's, Parker and the guard followed with Alphonse while the other two men, one with his hat pulled over his face, brought in Williams. They laid the men on the floor, then departed as silently as they came. Keetman and Blaisdell gave the bed to Griffin.

"Do you think you think you can save him?" Blaisdell asked quietly, looking at Griffin, who looked like death under the dark stubble on his sunken cheeks.  
Keetman glanced at him. "What is he to you, Blaisdell? Not one of your common mercenary soldiers?"

Blaisdell smiled slightly. "One of my projects, you might say."

"A fledgling mercenary?"

"More than that. We were in Afghanistan together," Blaisdell explained, leaning on the end of the bed. "He's almost ready to leave the nest."

"Then Dani will do her best to save his wings," Keetman said dryly. 

"What happened to him?" 

"They staked him out to die in the sun," the soldier said bluntly, "That's why he's worse than the others. He tried to escape."

"I'm not surprised. Griffin was never good at being cooped up." Blaisdell looked at Alphonse who had quieted down and Williams who was fast asleep. "They don't look very good either."

"Tallaz was a brutal bastard." Keetman walked to the door, and paused before he stepped outside. "I'm getting water. I hear Dani; she'll be up in a moment."

Blaisdell nodded. "I'll stay here until she does."

Keetman watched him closely for a second. "Try not to care too much, Blaisdell," he said seriously. "It hurts more when you lose them."

Blaisdell looked over in sudden suspicion. "That sounds like experience talking."

"It is." Keetman walked out. 

"Blaisdell..." Williams slurred unexpectedly. 

Blaisdell walked over to where he was lying on the far bed. "Bob?"

"Thank...you. For coming...back for us..."

Blaisdell gave a crooked smile. "Wouldn't want to let anyone down, Bob."

"Griff...he tried to escape. I helped..."

"That's why they beat the hell out of you," Blaisdell said with understanding.

"I was going...to be the first to be shot." Williams smiled fractionally. "I think...I'll retire."

"I've been thinking of that too," Blaisdell admitted to him. "But do you have enough money to do that?"

"What about the money...?" Williams whispered. "The shipment's a bust."

Blaisdell realized that he still had the prepaid money for the guns. "It wasn't your fault that the raid went bad, Williams. Nobody's fault except the bastard who sold you out. You'll get your pay."

"Whoever...did it, must have gotten paid big," Williams said. "Are you going to find...out...who did it?"

Blaisdell nodded. "Someday, somehow, I will find out," he said quietly. If only so that I know who cost me a promise to Keetman.

"He knows..." Alphonse said unexpectedly. "I heard him whisper it to him."

"What? Who knows?" Blaisdell said sharply. He went over to where Alphonse was lying, seeing the man was raving. "What do you know?"

Alphonse giggled. "I watched Griffin lying there, I saw your friend tell him. Griffin's face told me he knew..."

"You're crazy," Blaisdell said coldly. "Out of your mind from the heat."

"It's true!" Alphonse grabbed the light cotton sheet and wrung it between his fingers as he fidgeted, his eyes crazy. "I know it's true. Ask him! Ask Griffin for the truth."

Blaisdell moved over to where Griffin was lying, his eyes closed and the sheet over him barely moving as he breathed. "He may not live long enough to tell me," he said softly. 

The door opened and Danielle came in, Keetman followed, carrying a basin and several sheets. She had changed into a house dress and had a medical bag in one hand. "Now, we'll go to work," she said briskly. 

Blaisdell rolled up his sleeves. "What do you want me to do?"

"I'd better go see what young Welch has to tell me," Keetman commented, after he deposited what he was carrying. He ran his hand through his hair, then stretched. 

"It looks like you'll be heading north again," Blaisdell offered, meeting his eyes unflinchingly.

"That seems likely," Keetman agreed. "I'll see you both later." He walked out.

Blaisdell followed him to close the door, but he hesitated when he heard Keetman say, "Lieutenant Welch? I didn't expect you up here."

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Captain," Welch said urgently, "but I felt it important to pass on my information as soon as possible." 

"Parker said you had something to discuss," Keetman replied with a resigned sigh. "Let's go down to the library and talk."

From his angle, Blaisdell could see Welch hesitate, looking at the narrowly cracked door, then he turned on his heel and led the way, Keetman following. 

"Paul?" Danielle called. Blaisdell turned. "Would you please eavesdrop on that conversation? I need to know what Welch has to say and I can't leave my patients." 

Blaisdell felt a rush of heat burn his ears, but he nodded and slipped out the door, shutting it behind him. Treading carefully, he reached the stairway and paused just before the bend.

Keetman was seated at the dining-room table. Their voices floated up the staircase. 

"So, what is happening?"

"In twenty-four hours, a detachment of troops, including tanks, will be here. Forty-eight hours from now, we will be going into Angola. The targets are here," the rustle of a map, "here, and here, Captain. The General would like you to lead the attack in this sector."

Keetman grunted. "My intel says that the area is packed with guerilla bases as well as refugees."

"The latest reports from American intelligence and our own men will be in your hands tomorrow," Welch supplied. "Captain...

"Yes?"

"I would very much like to serve under your command during this operation," Welch said formally. "I wish to see action, sir. I think that this would be the time and place."

Keetman must have gotten a drink from somewhere because Blaisdell heard the click of ice in a glass. "You know your father would disapprove of this request."

"Yes, sir, I know."

"Then, you know that it is unlikely I can agree to it."

"I have an idea, sir, of how to do it, if I can be so bold."

Blaisdell bit his lip. Young Welch had to have planned this ahead of time. The excessive politeness didn't quite cover his uncertainty.

"Go ahead," Keetman replied. "I'm listening."

"If you are sending out a troop to reconnoiter tomorrow, it's possible that we would not return before the attack," Welch suggested. "Thus, I wouldn't be here when my father returns."

"And what do I give the General as a reason to send you out?" Keetman asked lazily.

"You were short of troops after this last raid, and felt that you needed fresh information. Since I speak Bantu, I suggested that I go along to help."

Keetman snorted. "That's weak."

"Sir, he doesn't dare do anything to you, not with the big push coming, and I will be long gone."

"And what do I tell him if you get killed, young Welch?" Keetman asked.

Blaisdell concluded the soldier had a good question there. The likelihood of Welch's demise was certainly a possibility. This sounded like a huge maneuver.

"That I died a soldier," Welch said with intense feeling. "I have never had the chance of being a soldier, sir. I would like that."

Silence. Blaisdell heard Keetman walk back across the room, probably to the desk. "I'm afraid that's not possible, Welch, though I understand your feelings. I don't take raw recruits on this kind of mission."

"Sir..." Welch's voice trailed off, then grew harder. "Please reconsider."

"It's out of the question."

Welch suddenly asked, "Who are those men upstairs? Are they soldiers? Are they rebels?"

"That's none of your business," Keetman replied harshly.

"Will they compromise our mission? Was this last one authorized?" Welch continued. "Does my father know about it?"

Silence again, but this time, a dangerous silence. Blaisdell realized the odds had just been raised. 

"They were strangers trapped in the desert. The troop discovered them on the way back," Keetman said harshly. 

"Are they connected with the jeep in the back, the jeep from Windhoek, that has civilian papers?" Welch pressed. "Captain, let me go on this raid!"

"Are you blackmailing me, Welch?" Keetman asked in sheer amazement. "Those men have nothing to do with our mission."

"But, sir, their presence here, on the brink of the raid, could lead to questions," Welch retorted. 

"Men who blackmail me get shot," Keetman said flatly. "I don't tolerate it."

"Shooting me would be a bad idea, sir. I'm the general's son; you are his top officer in this area. We have stalemate," Welch replied vehemently. "I will do whatever I can to make sure I'm on that raid!"

"But if you died on the raid..." Keetman mused in a hard tone.

"Bullet holes in my back would be hard to explain, Captain," Welch said fatalistically. "Sir, I have no real interest in your last raid or the men who I helped unload -- yes, I was one of those soldiers, but I have to take my chances sometime. This is my only chance."

"Why?" Keetman questioned. The ice cubes in his drink tinkled as he drank. "Why do you want so very much to be on this raid?"

"I am due to be reassigned to the diplomatic service in several months. I want to prove I can be a soldier, Captain, before I get shut out of the field again."

Welch's voice sound young and desperate. Blaisdell was inclined to believe he was being honest, but whether or not, blackmailing his commanding officer was a poor way to start a career in the government. The mercenary mentally winced at the thought of being used as a lever against the man who had saved his people's skins. There was nothing he could do about it now, but sometime in the future, he'd make a point of looking up Welch and making his position clear. That was if the boy survived the night.

Keetman's voice, when he finally spoke, was thoughtful. "Lieutenant, soon a team will be leaving to clear land mines from the roads north. They will stay out until after the attack, if your timing is correct and it comes in forty-eight hours. If you wish to join the demolitions team, and join us later, then I will tell Teit to take you along. It leaves four hours after sunrise."

"Thank you, sir!" Welch sounded exalted. "That will do very well, indeed."

"You're assuming that I won't tell Teit to shoot you?"

"No, sir, I don't believe you would, sir. I might blow myself up, but that's in the line of duty. I'll just call the guard -- "

"What?"

"To tell him you've returned. Then I'll leave." The sound of rotary dialing, then Welch said, "Headquarters? Yes, this is -- oh, yes, you know me. Captain  
Keetman has returned. What? Very well. Good night." 

"So?"

"The morning watch will send the message to the General, sir."

"Then you'd better get your kit and report out back," Keetman said, suddenly sounding exhausted. "I'll speak with Teit now."

"Yes, sir!" The sound of running footsteps went out the back of the house.

Keetman sighed heavily. 

Blaisdell followed an impulse and went down the stairs to meet him in the front hallway. "A busy night."

"Indeed it was," Keetman replied ruefully. "I assume you heard everything?" 

"It would be hard not to," Blaisdell admitted. "You letting him get away with it?"

"Teit will treat him just the way he treats the rest. Young Welch may be in for a shock." Keetman gave a rough laugh, and rubbed his face. Dirt rubbed off on his stubbly cheeks. "He'll be out from underfoot for the next two hours. Has Dani said anything about how your men are?"

"She just got started," Blaisdell replied. 

"By this afternoon we will be overrun with troops," Keetman said bluntly. "Stay upstairs, stay with your men and keep down. Welch is not the only one who could see your jeep outside. I'd better have that moved."

One of Keetman's men interrupted them. "Captain?"

"Yes, Teit?"

"Welch said you were looking for me?" 

Keetman sighed. "Yes. Let's go outside."

 

Griffin tried to open his eyes, but found nothing but whiteness when he managed to crack them. He felt coolness in the air, and then the touch of water between his cracked lips. He licked at as much as he could and sighed when the water hit his raw, parched throat.

"You're awake, then, Griff?" a woman said softly. Fingers touched his right cheekbone, brushing aside his long hair, and then checked the pulse in his neck.

He sighed again. If this was heaven, he'd do whatever it took to stay there. He tried to open his eyes again, but something was in the way.

"How is he?" The softly accented voice was familiar. Griffin tried to remember where he had heard it before. 

"Better. The fever's down," the woman said quietly. 

"Can he be moved?" asked Blaisdell's familiar voice.

"We have to move them or they're trapped here for weeks," the man replied. "What do you think, Dani?"

"I think faster you get that Spaniard to a hospital, the better. He must already be in intense pain," she answered. "Syphilis is a horrible way to die."

Griffin realized they were talking about Alphonse. Syphilis? He remembered the lesions and the emaciated body, and the drugs. He was slightly foggy on  
most of the details on how syphilis killed, but he had no reason to doubt the speakers. But wasn't that a contagious disease? God, did he have it? No, it was sexually transmitted, and not in his wildest dreams had he ever dreamed of having sex with Alphonse. He must be delirious.

"He must have had it for a couple of years for it to be so far along," the man said. "Probably kept it under control with drugs. But all this..."

"He can still control it but it would be better if he was in a hospital," 'Dani' said, laying something cold on Griffin's forehead. "The other man, Williams, is  
recovering well."

"There's a sturdy man. He told us most of what happened before he passed out," the man commented.

Keetman! Captain Keetman. Now Griffin remembered the voice. But where the hell was he? Not in heaven, he realized with a touch of regret. 

"Has Paul figured out who betrayed them?" she asked. 

"Not yet. He's waiting to talk to your patient."

She chuckled. "Well, I think he's awake, but I don't know how coherent he is. Why don't you tell Paul that his protege is awake?"

Griffin turned his head towards the scraping of the wooden chair, and felt stiffness in all neck muscles. 

"Turn this way," the woman urged, her fingertips turning his head gently back. 

Looking down under what he suddenly realized were bandages, he could see a blur of reddish-blond hair, and blue cotton. He smelled honeysuckle. Was she beautiful? He couldn't tell.

The door opened and shut and someone sat down in the chair.

"Griffin? Kermit?" Blaisdell's voice was low and calm, just as it had been under fire in Afghanistan. 

He turned his head again to the right. "Sir?" his voice came out as a croak.

"Try a sip of this," she urged and he felt a straw between his lips. He sucked up some water and swallowed, instantly feeling better.

"Kermit, we're going to move you out to a hospital as soon as we can," Blaisdell said. 

"How...'re you going..." Griffin swallowed painfully, "going to explain..."

"Oh, you're just one of those crazy tourists who got lost in the Kaukau Veldt," Danielle assured him with a hint of laughter. "Lucky we found you when we did. You could have died."

Griffin managed a painful smile. "Right... Hyenas."

"Hyenas?"

A ghost of a laugh came from the direction of the door. "Otaya stopped a hyena from making a meal of him. Nearly blew his cover when he raised the camp. Tallaz blamed it on his own men and doubled the guard," Keetman explained.

Otaya...Keetman. Tallaz. It all came back slowly to Griffin. "Who shot..."

"What? What did you say?" Blaisdell asked, leaning forward from the sound of rustling cloth.

Griffin shook his head fractionally. "Nothing..."

"Kermit, tell me one thing. Did Tallaz ever tell you who sold you out?" Blaisdell said urgently.

The man who sold him out...? Griffin vaguely remembered asking Tallaz that question but he didn't remember the answer. His memories after that first hour in the sun were totally blurry. "I...don't know. I don't know, Paul..."

"Don't stress yourself," Danielle said with authority. "If you get upset, you'll be sick again."

Griffin frowned, feeling a headache building between his temples. He willed himself to remember because something was very important but he couldn't remember what it was. 

"You have the hospitals all set up, Paul?" Keetman asked quietly. 

"Yes, it's all planned out. They'll all be taken care of. What about his eyes, Danielle?" Blaisdell asked her, deadly serious. 

"They'll be sore for a time, but they should heal. He should recover fully," she said quietly.

Griffin felt an immense surge of relief and gratitude to the woman. She had just killed his worst nightmare. 

"I'll find something for him," Blaisdell said evasively. "I have to thank you both one last time for this."

"It wasn't free, Blaisdell," Keetman replied in amusement. "Remember -- you owe me an unconditional promise."

"The way things are going, you'd better do it before someone finishes me off," Blaisdell said dryly. 

"Then I'll ask it of your family," Keetman retorted. "Or of Griffin. Will your protege pay your debts?"

Griffin's mind was too blurry to follow exactly what was going on but he felt there was a threat in the air. He'd have to ask Paul later for all the details.  
"I'll ask him," Blaisdell said dryly, "when he recovers."

"If you are going to discuss that, take it downstairs," Dani said authoritatively. "I will be back in a second."

The door closed behind them, leaving Griffin to roll his head from side to side to see under the bandage. What he could see of his skin was an ugly blistered red. 

Someone sighed. He turned his head. "Who is it?" he croaked.

"You know," the voice said accusingly. "Why don't you tell them?"

"Alphonse...?"

"I want that money, Griff, the money for suffering like this," Alphonse said in a high-pitched voice. His words accelerated. "I want it! Tell them what Tallaz told you..."

Griffin shook his head. "I don't... remember."

"You really don't remember?" Williams asked unexpectedly, his voice nasal. "Tallaz talked to you!"

"I don't remember a thing after an...hour in the sun," 

Griffin said slowly. "Where are we?"

"Blaisdell got the South Africans to help him. I don't know what he had to do for it," Williams said. 

"You KNOW who DID this!" Alphonse snarled, and Griffin heard the sound of cloth, then felt the man's hands around his throat. "Tell me what he said -- Argh!"

Griffin put up his hands to defend himself, but from the narrow slit under the bandages, he saw Williams drag Alphonse away. The Texan was yelling for help at the top of his lungs.

The door burst open and a tall man with a limp burst in, followed by what looked like a guard. They dragged Alphonse off Williams, and slammed him back on the other bed. Williams staggered back to his cot, red seeping through the bandages on his face. 

A few seconds, Alphonse was tied with the cotton sheeting to his cot, where he cursed till someone gagged him. 

Griffin barely heard Danielle come bursting in, followed by Keetman and Blaisdell. "We'd better get them all out of here," she said staring at the trio. "I'll give your Spaniard a shot to knock him out. How is your face?"

Williams replied in a muffled tone, "It hurts, ma'am."

She laughed. "I'll wager it does. Alec, you have a plan?"

"Parker will take them out in the Cessna, Dani. I can see the tanks already coming down the road, so let's get a move on."

"So, that's why the dust in the distance," Blaisdell chuckled. 

Keetman nodded. "They'll bring them down, Paul. Come outside with me."

Griffin's consciousness faded in and out as hands tucked the blanket around him, then lifted him onto a stretcher, from the feel of the rough canvas. He was carried downstairs and outside into the bright sunlight, then laid gently in what had to be the airplane. He could hear the sound of Williams joking with someone, then the troopers left.

Finally, he heard Blaisdell and Keetman's voices outside the doorway. 

"So, you will be in touch?" Blaisdell questioned.

"I am going to have to pull the marker now," Keetman replied decisively. "You know a little too much about what's going on here."

"The attack?"

"The attack."

"By all rights, you should have just shot us all."

"Dani hates getting blood on the tiles."

"Ah."

Keetman added, "But then, we do have a few ground-to-air missiles. So, do I have your word?"

"That I won't tell anyone about the upcoming attack?" Blaisdell asked whimsically. "Who would I tell?"

"Your contacts are as good as mine, Falcon," Keetman said flatly. 

"You have my promise, Captain," Blaisdell replied in a formal tone. 

"Then your debt's paid off."

"I don't think so," Blaisdell said seriously. "I have a feeling that I'm still in your debt. I'll tell you when it's paid off."

Keetman gave a short laugh. "That's a change, Blaisdell."

"Watch out for the Welches. I don't trust blackmailers."

"Nor do I. We'll see how it is when he comes back," Keetman said.

Griffin was confused by all the names but the tone of Blaisdell's voice was reassuring. There was nothing to be worried about.

"Where's Danielle?"

"She said that lunch had disagreed with her, and went up to rest. Here's Parker," Keetman suddenly added. "Take care, Paul."

"My best to your wife and the baby," Blaisdell replied.

"The baby? Robert?"

"The new baby."

Keetman sounded shaken. "What baby?"

"Talk to your wife," Blaisdell said over the sound of Parker climbing aboard. "Goodbye." 

The cabin door slammed shut. Griffin heard someone moving around in the cabin, settling into a seat, and sighing. It sounded like Blaisdell. The other sounds were from in front of him from the pilot's cabin.

With a roar, the plane shuddered to life. 

Griffin drifted off into sleep.


	4. Part Two: America, 1995

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two of the story is set in 1995

Detective Peter Caine of the Metro Division came into the squad room exhausted from a long day of futile hunting. He sank into his swivel chair with a heavy sigh. He ran his hands through his dark brown hair and looked up to meet the slightly-amused look of Jody Powell, the blond woman detective who sat a desk away. 

Before he could retort to the amusement in her eyes, she commented, "If you really want to see something unique, check out Kermit's office."

Peter frowned. "What's up with Kermit?" Kermit Griffin, the squad's resident computer and Internet guru, inhabited the corner office with two desks, an elaborate computer and numerous other bits and pieces that Peter accepted without question.

"I saw him go in with a garment bag," she said cryptically. "I've never seen him out of that blue suit, Peter."

They both glanced over at the office, where all the venetian blinds were shut. 

"Hot date, eh?" Peter shook his head at the rampant curiosity of the squadroom. It was almost a family with a rapport gained with shared dangers.   
Unfortunately, this led to a lot of teasing. "Well, I need to talk to him about the guns."

"Daniel into the lion's den," she called mockingly as he knocked on the closed door. 

After a moment's debate, Peter turned the knob and went inside. Jody must have missed Kermit's exit because the office was empty of human life. The computer screen-saver danced with butterflies and flowers made Peter blink. The light danced over the garment bag hanging off a shelf in one corner of the room.

Peter's eyebrow went up in amazement. Was their green- sunglasses-wearing expert becoming a dandy? After a second's struggle with his curiosity, he went over to the garment bag and unzipped it about a foot to see what was inside.

"Black tie? Whew!" he whistled. "He didn't even wear that at Donny's wedding!"

He didn't even have a second's warning before Kermit walked into the room. Peter, caught with his hand on the zipper, felt himself blush as he met the glare from the sunglasses. 

"Can I help you?" Kermit inquired pointedly.

"Un, just wanted to see if you..." Peter stumbled over his words. Finally he zipped up the bag. "Had any luck with tracking those guns?"

Kermit shrugged and sat down behind his desk. "Not much. It's hard when the serial numbers have been taken off."

Peter turned away from the garment bag and hitched himself onto the top of the other desk. "I did come up with one thing this morning. I found this," he pulled out a Tec-9 from his jacket, "in the company of a young jerk. He was playing with it. Tried to tell me he was out shooting rats. He's now with the juvenile authorities."

Kermit leaned forward his hand outstretched. Peter handed him the gun. He turned it over in his hand. "Fairly new, but it's been used a couple of times, from the scoring. Interesting."

"Really? Why?"

"These are untraceable. It could mean anything from someone building a stockpile of them to a shipment of guns being shipped to another country."

"Other countries? Arms smuggling?" Peter asked seriously. As an ex-mercenary, Kermit had insights into the arms trade that only Peter's foster father, the police captain Blaisdell would have. Unfortunately, Blaisdell was on a leave of absence and was unreachable at that moment.

"Maybe. I can ask -- " Kermit looked up as Jody knocked on the frame of the half-opened door. "Yes?"

"You have a guest, Kermit," she said with a puzzled grin.

He stopped turning the gun for a second, then he laid it on his messy desk. "Who?"

"A Danielle Keetman," Jody confirmed. "She says she needs to speak to you urgently."

Kermit stared at her blankly, then he went slightly white, before standing up. "Keetman? Keetman...oh, my... Did you say Danielle Keetman?"

Peter's curiosity showed in his eyes, but sensitive to Kermit's moods, the detective managed to prevent himself from saying anything. It took a lot to surprise Kermit.

Jody shrugged. "That's what she says. Do you know her?"

Kermit didn't reply as he walked out, Peter trailing him. She smiled cynically as she went back to her desk and sat down behind a pile of files. The stocky, bullet-headed Chief of Detectives, Strenlich, came into the office from the outer desk and stopped dead, his eyes widening.

The woman would have stood out in New York. Her cobalt blue suit ended at mid-thigh, showing impossibly long legs ending in spiked high-heeled shoes. Her wheaten mane of hair was tied in a pony-tail, and her makeup was applied discreetly to make her brown eyes look even bigger than they were. Her bow lips were very red and shiny from lip gloss. 

Kermit stared at Danielle who was smiling smugly at him. "Mrs. Keetman?"

"Mr. Griffin? I'm so glad to meet you again."

"Likewise," Kermit replied, though he sounded somewhat puzzled, as if he didn't recognize her. "What are you doing here?"

That got Peter's attention. "You've never met before?

Danielle giggled. "Oh, this isn't the first time we've met."

Peter saw Kermit tense. "I wasn't in a position to appreciate it last time, Mrs. Keetman. Would you like to -- "

"Please call me Dani," she chuckled. "I have something for you."

Peter could have sworn Kermit blushed. Jody's jaw dropped as did the chief's, then both looked at Peter for confirmation. He swallowed. 

"From Alexander," Danielle continued, conscious of the effect of her words and openly amused by it. "We must have a long talk." 

"From Keetman?" Kermit looked around. "I have to work -- 

"You can take off," Strenlich called unexpectedly. His broad knowing smile earned a glare from Kermit and a bright smile from Danielle, who slid her hand in the crook of Kermit's arm. She barely reached his shoulder. "I'll cover with Captain Simms. You've got to get away from that computer sometime. Take the rest of the day."

"Peter -- " Kermit begun.

Peter interrupted. "I haven't got anything more for you, Kermit. Go ahead."

Outgunned, Kermit gave in as gracefully as he could. "I'll just get my coat." He disengaged himself from her hand, and went back into his office.

The undercover officers eyed Danielle, who smiled back at them knowingly, her eyes filled with mirth. The door to the stairway opened and Peter's blood father, Kwai Chang Caine, came in, stopping abruptly when he saw the woman. Her sophisticated suit was a jarring contrast to most of the casual dress in the room, and Caine's own simple garb of pants, shirt, and a dark jacket.

"I'll be back later, if you find something out, Peter," Kermit called, coming out, his blue jacket buttoned neatly, and his tie straightened. He'd taken a moment to run a comb through his black hair, brushing it into place. He looked like a refugee from the FBI circa 1970. "Leave me a note."

"I'll do that," Peter called as and Kermit left, walking past Caine who stepped politely out of her way. She obviously dismissed him without a second glance. Peter saw Caine's nose twitch from the heavy floral perfume that hung around Danielle.   
Jody waited until the door was shut behind them before letting out a huge sneeze. She caught Peter's eye as she wiped her nose on a Kleenex. "Sorry."

"The perfume was a little....strong," Caine agreed as he came forward. "Who was...that?"

"A friend of Kermit's," Peter said. 

"I wonder what she's got to show him?" Blake asked from the desk behind Jody. The older detective was obviously fascinated by what had happened. 

"Her etchings, probably," Jody said cynically. 

The chief frowned. "French postcards, likely."

"Chief!" the tall desk sergeant, Broderick, said, scandalized, as the office broke up in laughter.

"That was a very expensive outfit," commented Jody, after blowing her nose, and disposing of the Kleenex. "If I'm right, it was a Paris original."

"Pricey," Strenlich mused. "I wonder if he'll try and expense lunch somehow."

"We can all interrogate Kermit later," Peter said hopefully. The expressions that greeted this comment were derisive. He turned to Caine. "What's up, Pop?"

Caine winced. He hated that name, and Peter knew it. "I have this. One of my students....gave to me." He handed Peter something wrapped in cloth that had the unmistakable shape of a gun.

Peter unwrapped it grimly, and found another Tec-9. "Where did he or she get it, Pop? Where are they?"

"I have convinced her to tell you. She will be at my home in an hour," Caine said with a slight reproof. "I will prepare... lunch." He turned towards the door again with a slight frown. 

Peter looked up aware that his father's sensitive senses were on alert. "What? What is it?"

"That woman...."

"Danielle Keetman?"

"What do you know of her?"

"Not a thing. Why?"

Caine lifted one shoulder a fraction. "She doesn't....how do you say it? Doesn't seem like `his type'?"

Peter felt a trace of uneasiness. "What kind is Kermit's type? I've never seen him on a date."

"He's fun," Jody said unexpectedly from behind Peter. "But he keeps to himself most of the time." They both turned as she dropped a file on Peter's desk.   
"He's a real gentleman who buys the first box of popcorn. I'll see you in a couple of hours, Pete. I've got vice duty tonight." She walked out of the squadroom before he could reply.

Peter, Caine and the others stared after her blankly. "Am I missing something here?" Peter asked rhetorically.

"I wonder what the movie was?" Strenlich mused.

"I will be...awaiting you," Caine said quietly and walked after her.

Peter shrugged, knowing pressuring his father would get him nowhere. "Got to finish my work anyway..."

 

The young man brushed back his black hair, smoothing it into place, as he leaned back in his polished leather chair. From his polished laced black shoes to the fitted Brioni suit, he was a classic example of a consular attache. Only a bright red tie with yellow balloons was unconventional. "Alfred Daterman, the vice-president of First National Bank has worked out all the details, Colonel. The money from the bank loans will officially be registered in Johannesburg as soon as Minister Otaya's signature is on the documents here in the United States."

Keetman hadn't changed much in the fifteen years since he'd hunted insurgents in what had been South West Africa, now the independent country of Namibia. He was still muscular, but time had sprinkled grey in his light hair and bulked out his torso. His face was weathered from the sun and fans of wrinkles appeared when he laughed. He wore a tailored suit of dark grey pinstripes and looked like any of the businessmen on the street if you didn't notice his military bearing. "The security arrangements have been set up at the airport as well. The minister will have special treatment at customs and from there to the airport, my men will accompany him to the luncheon."

"You're not planning to have a press conference at the airport, sir?"

"No, Welch, the government suggested we keep it low profile there. Enough press will be at the luncheon without having to deal with it at the airport!"

"I agree. The protection for the diamonds is all taken care of as well?"

Keetman laughed. "Daterman has that well in hand. They will be shown to the crowd, who will ooh-and-aah, then stored in the secure vaults at the bank until the loan to our government in South Africa is repaid. I've added a few special arrangements that I didn't tell him about, but they would only come into play if there is a problem. Back-ups for back-ups."

"That sounds excellent. The diamonds won't nearly cover the cost of the loan," Welch observed, playing with his pen. "If the stones are dumped on the market, then the price of diamonds will sink and the bank will never recover its money."

"The cartel would probably buy back the gems to support the market long before that happened," Keetman acknowledged. "The bank can write the loan off as non-performing and get some relief as well as payment for the diamonds, and then the diamond cartel will basically own the government."

"The press around here would say they already do," Welch commented dryly. "If they knew where to look for who is pulling the strings."

"It isn't totally big business. I think that the new government would have problems with their Trade Attache thinking that," Keetman said dryly. "So, let's go through it one more time. Minister Otaya comes in with the diamonds, and goes to the bank's luncheon. The diamonds are given over to the bank manager, Daterman, -- "

"This is all for show," Welch cut in. "We'd do better selling them raw plutonium or platinum." 

"Diamonds make a more impressive showing to the public than a shipment of consumer goods," Keetman replied cynically. "Then the loan is released to the government, Otaya makes the diplomatic rounds, then we all go home in a week or so."

"I thought that Mrs. Keetman was joining you, sir," Welch asked. "Along with your daughters."

A smile played on Keetman's lips. "She arrives with the girls the same day that Otaya does. After the luncheon, I'm meeting her at the hotel and we'll dine in town. Then the day after, we head to the mountains."

"There's not much in this country that we don't have at home," Welch shrugged. "Nature-wise, that is."

"My daughter is looking forward to American shopping and the younger one wants to see a real...ah, 'theme park' and the zoo. I'm just the walking wallet," Keetman replied with a grin. "Dani wants to take some clothes home for Robert as well. She refuses to let him grow up in khakis and flannel shirts."

"How is your son doing?"

"He's a park ranger in Etosha, no less, working with Parker." The men's gazes met. Fifteen years might have passed, but both remembered the border raids. "Robert was hired by the Namibians just last month. I didn't want him to follow in my footsteps but he does seem to be, at least, geographically," Keetman said with a laugh. 

"I'm sure they still remember you up there, sir," Welch said suavely. 

"Your father is well, Chris?"

"Very well, sir. He still goes into the clubs once a week to keep up with his military friends, but most of the time he stays at Kanakka with my mother."

"You are in touch with him often?" 

"Frankly, I came here to get away from my father," Welch said with a slight edge. "What he thinks is none of my concern."

"That's the attitude that almost cost you a hand," Keetman replied sharply.

Welch looked down at his left hand where two fingers were shortened and scar tissue ran up the outer edge. "If it hadn't been for your wife, I would have lost the entire hand to that land mine."

"She said you were the best patient she had. Didn't even wince when she was cleaning the wounds."

"My great military career ended there," Welch said with a lack of emotion in his voice. "I didn't exactly cover myself with glory, Colonel."

"You didn't cover yourself with shame either," Keetman replied. He was more than a trace uncomfortable with the turn the discussion was taking. "I had hoped you'd come back in better shape."

Welch shrugged and dismissed the comment. "Fortunes of war. Besides, you had the harder task -- dealing with my father. Whatever happened to those men who were in your truck on that raid?"

Something flashed in Keetman's eyes, but he smiled. "I really don't know. I may see some of them tonight -- "

"At the Mercenaries' Ball?" 

"You know about that?"

"Certainly. I didn't know you planned to attend, Colonel!"

Keetman nodded. "It is the best place to hear what's happening in that end of the world. Angola, for instance, -- "

"Ethnic problems, sir. Not our business."

"More than that. Mercenaries are being hired on both sides, and they are coming from home. I know most of the players in that market."

"Will they talk to you, sir?"

"Some will," Keetman declared, leaning back in his chair, "Some won't. Put the pieces together and we'll have a picture to work together."

"I don't envy you, sir," Welch admitted. "That is a dangerous set of people to be visiting."

Keetman gave a twisted smile. "Old friends, old enemies. They are very practical people. All cash on the barrel head. No time for sentiment. No time for idealism. I understand them; even if I don't live by their rules any more."

"If you find yourself short of funds, Colonel, you can draw from this office -- " 

Keetman raised his hand. "As the Americans would say, don't co-mingle funds. I have moved some private money into an account with First National and that should be enough to cover my family's holiday costs. Your Mr. Daterman, in fact, set up the account."

Welch nodded, his pen doodling on the pad in front of him. "For all he looks like a mushroom, Daterman is very efficient."

"He was certainly so at the bank."

"So you are satisfied with the security arrangements?"

Keetman nodded. "I am."

Welch smile. "Your hotel arrangements are also fine, Colonel?"

"You've done an all-round good job," Keetman said seriously. "Thank you very much."

"Then you'll be calling in tomorrow -- "

"Probably in the afternoon," Keetman cut him off. "This party is likely to last all night."

"Very well, sir. I look forward to seeing your report," Welch concluded formally by rising and holding out his right hand.

Keetman shook it. "Tomorrow, Mr. Welch. As they say here, have a good day."

" _Goeie midi_ , Colonel. Good afternoon."

 

"What brings you here, Mrs. Keetman?" Kermit said awkwardly. "You said you had something from your husband?" His usual unflappable aplomb had flown out the window as soon as she walked in. He had hoped to forget what happened fifteen years before, though he'd never sit out in the sun after that experience. Blaisdell had only mentioned it once after Griffin had gotten out of the hospital, and even when he joined the police force with Blaisdell's help, their mutual past was kept unspoken. This was a jarring switch. 

It was a hot summer afternoon and the city swam in smoggy air and melting tar. The traffic was thick as people rushed from one place to another.

He wasn't surprised when she laid a hand on his arm. "That was an excuse to get you out of work. I want you to drive me to my hotel."

His lips tightened. "I don't think I'll do that, Mrs. Keetman. Your husband's not a man I want to mess with." 

She stared at him blankly, then gave a high-pitched giggle. "Not for that, you silly man. I have something to show you. Something I got from Alexander."

He shrugged. "I can wait in the car if you want to bring it down, ."

"You have to come up to the room." Danielle said provocatively. "I promise not to rape you, Kermit Griffin."

He shot her an inquisitive glance which she answered with a mischievous smile. "I should hope not. Where is your hotel?"

She gave him an address that made him raise an eyebrow. It was a small hotel far from the city's center that catered mostly to business travelers and cheap tourists. The Keetmans must be poorer than he remembered if that was where she was staying. 

Three-quarters of an hour later, they drove into the parking lot. Kermit looked at her. "Are you sure about this, Mrs. Keetman?"

"I am not bringing it down," she said uncompromisingly. "You will have to come upstairs for it."

He stared at her suspiciously from behind his dark glasses. "You're inviting me up to your room? You've changed, Mrs. Keetman."

She raised her chin. "Life does that, Kermit Griffin. Come upstairs."

He reluctantly got out of the car. "Where is your husband, Mrs. Keetman?"

"He's still in South Africa," she stated flatly as she slid out of the car.

Kermit followed her into the small hotel. The pimply-faced clerk buried in a newspaper, didn't even raise his head as they passed. 

After climbing to the second floor of the motel, she put the key into the lock and opened the door.

Something was wrong. Kermit's shoulders tensed as he looked warily at the open door, then went in, his shoulders tense. He closed the door behind him   
and looked around the small hotel room. A small passageway led to a standard hotel room, with the bathroom to one side. The door was closed, Kermit noted uneasily. The bed was a double with a metal frame, a small table, chairs set by windows overlooking the dumpsters, and a dresser with a fly-specked mirror. Not a prepossessing place. 

Her suitcase was lay open on the luggage rack to one side. A flashy green dress hung in the closet with matching shoes below it. 

She discarded her suit jacket on the side table. "Here is the information." She held out a faded brown file lying on a table.

Kermit couldn't resist. He took it eagerly, but she didn't let go until he tugged. "What is this?"

"Alexander wasn't totally truthful with Blaisdell, years ago. He found out who sold the convoy to the Angolans, but he never told Blaisdell." 

"What? Why?" Kermit sat down on the edge of the bed and flipped open the file. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her move to the ice bucket, and frown. 

"We need some ice," she murmured. "Sit down while I get some." She took bucket and key, opened the door and went out.

Kermit looked over the xeroxed pages, then flicked to the back. A Captain Alexander Keetman had signed the report, so it was from Danielle's husband. He flipped back to the front and began to read the text. 

It was the official report that Keetman had filed with his superiors several days after the return from the larger border raid. It went into detail about Tallaz and the Russian connection, a man called Steshka, and the cleaning up of the guerrillas that had been terrorizing that part of Namibia. No mention of Blaisdell or the survivors. 

Kermit didn't notice her return until the ice bucket caught him on the side of the head, toppling him, unconscious, onto the bed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two of the story is set in 1995

Peter conscientiously applyed himself to the files. It had taken three-quarters of an hour to finish updating the file on the unknown arms merchant who seemed to be flooding the city with weapons.

Or was he flooding the city? Peter paused. Three guns were more than a trickle but less than a flood. There could be more floating around, but there hadn't been any mass murders, just the usual body count that happened, unfortunately, every night. 

The phone on his desk rang twice. Bringing himself out of a reverie, he picked it up. "Caine."

"Rykker," the man's voice replied laconically.

Rykker? Across Peter's mind flashed the image of dapper, black-clad Rykker, a highly trained mercenary who had been a friend of Blaisdell's and later a friend of Peter and his father. 

"Rykker?" Peter asked doubtfully.

"I do know how to use a phone, you know," the man said dryly. "Did you get the invitation?"

Peter looked around his desk dubiously, seeing only piles of paper and file envelopes. "Ah...I don't think so."

"It's not large," Rykker said amused. "It should have come through the US mail."

"An invitation? To what?"

"The Mercenaries Ball."

Peter shook his head unconsciously. "What? When?"

"Tonight. I was down in Chinatown delivering one to your father. He said you never mentioned it."

"My father..." Peter took a deep breath. "Let's start this again."

Rykker laughed. "You had better go out and rent an expensive tuxedo. It's black-tie."

Peter's memory flashed to the unaccustomed tuxedo in Kermit's office. So was that where he was going tonight. "I have one."

"Good." Rykker's voice dropped to a serious tone. "Peter, it would be a good idea if you went tonight. There's a lot of rumors going around about your father."

"My father?" Peter said in disbelief. The thought of rumors, Kwai Chang Caine, and mercenaries didn't fit.

"Blaisdell. If you can't find your invitation, talk with your father. He got his invitation."

Click. The phone went dead for a second before there came a normal dial tone.

Peter ran his hands over his face, brushing back his long brown hair. He had never known a great deal of what his foster-father Blaisdell did as a mercenary, though he knew the older man had kept up his work even after he became a police captain. He also knew a man who would know more about what was going on. "Kermit won't be back today," he muttered under his breath. He glanced at his watch. Lunch time. Time to go down to Chinatown and see "Pop." The guns forgotten, he slammed shut the folder in front of him, and pulled on his coat. 

Peter walked through Chinatown, heading for his father's apartment. The crowd swirled around him in a friendly fashion, several of the vendors waving. He acknowledged them with a smile before he went in the street front where his father lived. The afternoon heat made him sweat under his summer jacket, and he could felt his hair curling in the humidity that covered the city like a water bed. 

Caine sat cross-legged in front of the altar, meditating with his eyes closed. 

"Pop?"

Caine turned his head towards a person who was sitting against the wall and nodded.

Peter turned. "Ariel?"

The street girl nodded. She was one of Caine's pupils and Peter's best contact among the homeless. It had taken years to get her to trust him. "Hi."

"What are you doing here?" Peter asked puzzled. 

She flicked a look from him to Caine, then back. "I was the one who found the gun."

Peter trained his attention on her. "What? Where?"

She brushed back her brown hair. "I found it down in a trash bin by the train station. It was mixed up with a bunch of wood and nails and a couple of old paper bags, like, you know, McDonald's bags, and I found a sandwich there too."

"Whoa, you found it with a bunch of wood and nails? Like -- "

"A crate," she supplied. "A broken up crate."

"What kind of a crate, Ariel? Big, small, did it have writing on it?" Peter burst out.

She flinched. "It was about the size of a...small mailing box. Not very big. It was dark out there. I didn't see any writing."

"You found the gun?"

"Yeah, all wrapped up in a trashcan. I didn't know who to go to, so I took it to your father," she concluded.

Peter looked at Caine's unmoving back. "The serial numbers are off it. Ariel?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you take me to the box?"

She looked uncertain. "It was, like, dark down there, Peter. I don't know if I can find it again. Do you think there are more guns?"

"We will go with you," Caine said quietly as he opened his eyes, "and look."

 

Groggy, Kermit thought he had probably been out for hours. Seconds later, he realized there was a black scarf tied around his eyes, and his hands and feet were bound by wire to what was probably the metal headboard. It was a vulnerable position that effectively immobilized him. 

He couldn't think straight. Turning his head to the right, he felt a stab of pain. Someone had hit him, hard, behind his ear.

Someone moved, then there was a touch of moist coolness on one arm and the prick of a needle. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked hoarsely. 

"Danielle?"

"Ah, you're awake," she said softly beside him, and he felt her touch the bruise. He winced. "I want you to tell me something, Kermit Griffin, and I can't afford to hear a lie."

He flexed his muscles, but the wires didn't give way. One cut into his right wrist where it was especially tight. "What?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"I want you to tell me who sold Alphonse and the others to the Angolans."

"Alphonse? The raid that...went bad?" he said slurred, feeling the drug, probably sodium pentothal, breaking down his ability to lie. "Why? You knew everything. Captain Keetman wouldn't have lied to you."

Her fingers stroked his chin for a second. "Haven't you figured it out yet, Kermit? I am not Danielle Keetman."

He stiffened. "I thought so..." he muttered. "I thought so. Your hair's different."

She laughed. "Alphonse never told me that! How rude of you, Griffin!"

"Alphonse?" he asked dizzily.

"Alphonse. Don't you remember him?"

Kermit remembered nearly being strangled by Alphonse the last time they met. It wasn't one of the pleasant memories of his mercenary days that he'd kept. "He's dead..isn't he?"

"He died a year ago," she said. "Now, I want the total truth, and you won't give me that without the drug, Griffin. It will help you remember what happened." 

Kermit felt an surge of adrenalin go through him, but it was followed by a wave of sickness. "Why does it matter to you? Who are you?"

"My name is Carla Costca. I'm Alphonse's wife. Now, tell me who was the traitor, Griffin? Who told the troops that you would be there, Kermit?"

He could feel his tongue unloosening and knew the drug was going to work. He flexed his fingers and brushed the metal rods that held the headboard in place. "I don't remember. I never remembered. I don't know if I knew?"

He felt her cool fingers touch the bruise again, and he unconsciously flinched. "He never knew," she replied soothingly. "He told me over and over again you knew, and Blaisdell knew, and Keetman knew. He spent our savings getting that report, and it says nothing! I will find Blaisdell, Kermit, and ask him if you don't tell me. I want the blood money from the man who turned you in!"

"Paul doesn't know," Griffin said truthfully. "Or he never told me that he did."

"He was one of the most powerful mercenaries in the world, and he must know the truth," she said passionately, her breath hot on his face. "They say he's dead now. Is he dead, Kermit?"

"He's gone..." Kermit explained helplessly in the grip of the drug. "He won't be coming back."

"Then, tonight at the Ball, his empire will be torn apart like a carcass. All those men playing little power games at the Mercenaries' Ball," she declared mockingly. 

"That's what Tallaz thought," Kermit mumbled. "He thought Blaisdell ruled an empire. But he doesn't. Never did. He was just a businessman."

"With enough power to overthrow governments. You knew that, Griffin, don't you? If he's gone, people will be reassessing what and who they have to deal with. They'll all be wheeling and dealing tonight," she said mockingly. "Were you planning on going to the Mercenaries' Ball, Griffin?"

"Yes..."

"You won't make it now. I'll tender your apologies to Mr. Rykker. Now, let's go over it again." He felt the prick of the needle. 

"I don't remember who sold them! I never knew." 

"I'm sure, that if you try hard enough, you will remember," she said softly. "I have all afternoon to listen to your old war stories."

 

Peter wrinkled his nose as he dug gingerly into the wire garbage can. Rain had glued the contents together in a sodden wad and he saw rat droppings nearby. He didn't like the thought that Ariel had probably been eating what she found down here. He really needed to see if he could get her into foster care or something. Not that he had been able to before, of course.

The girl was hopping from foot to foot as she watched. The sun had set behind the cargo warehouses that bordered the railroad station. Caine stood beside her, his eyes watching keenly. A bored station employee watched for a second before hunching his shoulders and walking back to the station. The air was full of the smell of engines and hot oil and rotting garbage.

"Are you sure it's around here, Ariel?" Peter asked, reaching the bottom.

"I told you I wasn't sure," she said defensively. "They could have emptied them since, Peter."

Caine picked up a wad of newsprint that had come out of the bottom. "This is from three days ago. I don't believe they empty them...that often."

"Then, I'll try the next one," Peter said grimly. 

The trio walked over the next set of tracks to another wire garbage bin. 

Peter dug down, emptying the trash beside it. "Geeze...hey! Look here." He pulled out a shard of wood. "I think this might be it."

Ariel went forward to help him dig. "It looks right."

Caine frowned. "Peter..."

Peter looked up. "Pop?"

"We have guests..."

The three men moving in weren't subtle. Peter took a defensive stance, his father backing him up, while Ariel took a good hold of a wooden stave. 

"I'm a police officer," Peter barked, hoping to dissuade them from attacking. 

It was a futile hope. One man jumped for him and Peter kicked out, tripping him to the ground just in time for the second man to rush him.  
Caine sheltered Ariel. He could hear her teeth chattering over the crunch of gravel beneath the attacker's feet. The man reached for his gun, and Ariel threw her stick, making him duck. Caine kicked out, hitting the man in the stomach, causing him to drop to his knees, his fingers scrabbling for the Tec-9 he had dropped. Another kick knocked him into unconsciousness.

Turning, Caine saw that Peter had dropped one man. The other had knocked the detective to his knees. The thug reached into his jacket, probably for a gun. 

Ariel hit the back of the man's legs like a linebacker, toppling him.

Peter foreswore the martial arts for a second and simply hit the man as hard as he could on the chin. The thug collapsed.

They panted, looking around at the prone bodies. 

"Who are they?" Peter voiced their joint bewilderment. He turned over the last man and reached for the wallet in the man's back pocket.

"I don't know," Ariel declared, brushing back her brown hair. "I've never seen them before."

"From out of town?" Caine hazarded.

"Way out of town," Peter said somberly, "assuming this is his real wallet. He's from Arizona. He's got a trucker's license in here as well."

"What's this?" Caine asked, picking up a piece of paper from where it had fallen from the second man's jacket. It was folded cardboard.

"What's it say, Pop?" Peter took it from his hand before Caine could reply. "Eight. Six-oh-three-five Wilson. Wilson? There's north and south on that street."

"The other side of town is bad," Ariel volunteered. "Lots of warehouses, all real dark. Lots of rail shipments stored there."

"Shipments..." Peter thought, putting the pieces in their places. "A gun shipment maybe?"

"To be retrieved?" Caine asked delicately.

"They're retrieving some guns? They may have lost a box or two and are trying to find them. Maybe some kids broke in, stole a box. That would explain why there are only three on the market..." Peter mused as he handcuffed the prisoner.

"Who are they?" asked Caine. "Who is leading this, my son?"

Peter shrugged. "Let's find out who they are first; then put the puzzle together. Pop, will you and Ariel call the precinct for back-up?"

 

Kermit heard the sounds of someone moving around, the familiar sound of a zipper being fastened, and the tapping of high heels on the vinyl flooring of a bathroom. He smelled the perfume again, this time heavier, then heard someone moving.

He'd finally passed out from the drug and the pain in his head. He vaguely remembered answering her questions, but from the increasingly shrill tone, he was sure he hadn't told her what she wanted to hear. 

Being tied up like this reminded him of those days in Namibia, and how helpless he felt. The room was sultry, as if the air conditioning were laboring in the hot summer heat, and failing. His eyes had been increasingly sensitive since then and he blamed that trip for the beginnings of it. 

He was suddenly sure that Tallaz had told him who it was. He hadn't mentioned a name, no, but he had said something that would make obvious the traitor. He racked his memory but couldn't remember what Tallaz had said. 

He heard another sound, the closing of a door, and the sound of heavier footsteps. Then the sharp smell of aftershave assaulted his nose as someone stopped by the bed. 

Rougher hands brushed his face as tape sealed his mouth, effectively gagging him. Kermit willed himself to stay limp. He didn't want the person to know he was awake. 

One of the pillows was yanked out from underneath his head, and pressed over his face unexpectedly. Just as suddenly, it was removed, and landed on the carpet beside the bed.

"You've arrived! I'm so glad," Carla purred, coming back into the room, from the sound of her high heels.

"He's still out?" the man asked in a tenor voice that carried like a lance through Kermit's wounded head. It was a familiar voice. He had to remember from where. It had been a long, long time since he'd heard it, though. "So, did he tell you?"

"He still says he doesn't remember. He told me all about the trip and what happened in the hut, and about some hyena, but he doesn't know who it was who betrayed them to Tallaz." 

"Then what do you plan to do?"

"Well, it has to be only one man. Bob Williams. He's the only one left alive. Besides you, of course. All the rest are dead."

"Bob Williams? Of course," the man commented, "it had to be him." 

"He stopped Alphonse from dragging that knowledge out of Kermit back then, but I'll get the truth out of him tonight. I'm going to the Ball tonight, Antony, to find Bob Williams."

"And kill him?"

"Only after he gives me the money. I want everything that Alphonse should have had," she hissed. "He robbed me!"

Kermit almost missed the last words as recognition flooded him. Antony Holms! He hadn't thought about the man in ten years since Blaisdell's group had broken up, and they'd gone their separate ways. It was rumored that Holms was down in Mexico running guns to the rebels in the mountains, or down in Guatemala, or somewhere else where it was hot since the man had a loathing of snow and ice. By the time Griffin had gotten out of the hospital, fifteen years before, Holms had vanished, as had most of the men involved in the raid.

"However did you get Kermit to trust you, Carla?" Holms asked curiously. "He's got such a suspicious mind."

She laughed. "Alphonse told me what to say so Kermit would believe I was Danielle Keetman. He knew them so well. Watched them for a year before he went to hospital."

"And Blaisdell is gone. If he were here..."

"If he were here, I'd make sure that I met Griffin outside of his office. I was lucky, Antony. Apparently Kermit Griffin never met her again after the raid. I was very, very lucky." Cloth brushed against Kermit's right hand, and a finger brushed against his forehead as if she'd brushed back his hair. "What is she like, Holms?"

He laughed. "She's tall, running to fat, and has three children. I'm sure that's why Keetman's still involved in the government. He needs the money to bring them up!"

"You don't like him, do you?" she asked curiously. "You talk about him just as you talk about Blaisdell. Such disdain, such -- "

"Keetman's pressure on Steshka cost me a job," Holms said coldly. "Blaisdell got in my way shipping weapons." 

Carla laughed. "Did you really run two shipments of guns through this town before Blaisdell heard about it? Did he really threaten to kill you if ever saw you again?"

"That was overblown. If it ever came out what he had done for a living before `retiring' here..." Holms' voice had an edge of mockery. "Just think what would happen if Kermit's past was known?"

Kermit didn't really want to think about that. He had enough problems with Captain Simms. She had been curious enough to try and find his missing police file. He had a horrible image of being shot up on sodium pentothal and spilling his history to her cool-eyed look. His throat went dry at the thought.

"So what do you want done with him, Carla?" Holms asked. "Shall I kill him?"

Kermit didn't move. He hoped that she'd say no.

"Why should we? He doesn't know who did it."

"But he knows about you, Carla, darling. Kermit always was a persistent sort of man. He'll try and find you and put you away. He takes being hit on the head personally," Holms said lazily.

A rustle of chiffon. "He'll never find me. Leave him alone, Antony. He's harmless."

"Let me help you with those straps." Kermit heard the sound of rustling and a giggle. "A beautiful dress."

"I got it in Paris."

"The straps fasten...ah."

"Stop that!" She giggled again.

Kermit remained immobile though he wanted to cringe. He could imagine the scene and it was something out of a bad spy novel. Carla would be lucky if Antony let her live out the night after making love to her. 

"Is he awake?" Holms said unexpectedly. "I thought I saw him move."

"I don't think so. See," her fingers brushed Kermit's face again, then she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Her perfume filled his nostrils. He quelched an urge to sneeze. "Still asleep. Sleeping beauty. He won't even know that you were here."

"So, we leave Griffin for the maids?"

"Can you imagine what they'll think?" She giggled. "Besides, I'll be back here to pick up my luggage and decide what to do then..."

Kermit could and resolved to never let the squadroom know what happened. He'd make sure of it. Bury the paperwork. That was if he lived. Carla might not kill him then, but he wouldn't put it past Holms. 

"Then let's go to the Ball," Holms said with a sarcastic chuckle. "I'm hungry, and Rykker always puts on a good spread for these things. Let me get your coat." 

A rustle of cloth, and then Kermit heard the door close behind them and closed his eyes behind the blindfold. How long had it taken to get upstairs to the hotel room? Two, three minutes. He strained his hearing. He could hear voices outside, a child's laugh, and the sound of footsteps on the metal stairs. He listened for another minute, hearing car doors open and shut.

Finally, he had given them enough time to leave. He tried to dismiss the headache and began shifting his body so it made the bed bang against the wall.  
Thud. Thud. Thud. He realized with a touch of dizzy amusement what it sounded like, but if he could keep up the obnoxious behavior long enough maybe someone would come and investigate. 

 

Blake came out of Kermit's office with a printout in his hands. "Peter, I've got something on that trucker of yours. Works for Worldwide Plumbing in Tucson."

"How'd you find it?" Peter took the printout from Blake's hands. Around them the detectives were packing up their work for the evening and quips were being traded about plans. Jody was discussing the Vice stakeout with Mary Margaret Skalany. Both women sounding disgusted. The dark-haired detective had the night off and was loudly rejoicing that she would get a chance at a good night's sleep. 

"I checked the files using Kermit's computer. It's the fastest." Blake grinned. "Let's not tell him I did it, though."

"Not if you want to live," Peter agreed. "What's this?"

"I looked into the person behind Worldwide Plumbing. It was a family-owned business up to two years ago when a man named Antony Holms bought it out. He owns several small trucking companies down there, most of which have contacts in Mexico. He has also had a rash of burglaries."

"Mexico?"

Blake grinned proudly. "I found that one of their vans was reported stolen in El Paso and turned up in southern Mexico. He claims it was empty, but the police found traces of a gun shipment -- "

"Guns!" Peter stared at him. "Like Tec-9s?"

"Like Tec-9s and a bunch of others. Rifles, ammunition, etc."

"Hmmm... So, can we assume that Mr. Holms is gun-running to the Mexican rebels?"

Blake frowned. "That might be a stretch..."

Peter's attention was caught by Captain Simms who had come out of her office and was looking around for someone. "Can I help you, Captain?"

"I'm looking for Griffin," she said briskly. "He's got a report I need to read." At the end of the day she still looked as crisp and cool as when she had  
walked in at noon after the morning in court, though her blonde hair was rumpled and her face and eyes looked tired. Her pinstriped jacket and skirt were creased from sitting for a long time. 

"He's got the rest of the day off, Captain," Strenlich cut in, his glance meeting Peter's in warning. "Can I help you?"

"I don't think so," she said with a frown. "Was this sudden?"

"Very," Peter agreed hastily. "Something came up."

She glanced around the room once more, then frowned. "Tell him I want see him as soon as he comes in."

"I'll tell him." She walked into her office as Peter took a look at his watch. Damn, it was almost time to get to the stakeout.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two of the story is set in 1995

Kermit realized that he had heard a noise from the room next door. All his hitting earlier hadn't brought any person to free him and he realized that probably the room was empty. But now there were thuds and voices.

He wrapped his hands around the posts of the headboard and lifted it, so that it was loose in his bound hands. Tilting it forward, then back, he let it thud heavily against the wall.

After five or six thumps, he heard a thud on the wall as if someone was annoyed.

Adrenalin flowed through his veins. He kept hitting the wall untill his strength gave way and he had to let the headboard down.

It tilted forward dangerously. Kermit realized that it would hit him in the nose if it fell. 

Knock! Someone rapped on the door of the room he was in. "Hey! Mrs. Keetman?" 

Kermit thought that this was the moment, but there was no way he could even call for help. His mouth was still covered with tape.

He took a deep breath and hit the wall again with the headboard. It swayed dangerously.

After the third time, the door to the room opened, and the clerk poked his head in. "Mrs. Keetman?"

Kermit struggled, then felt the headboard slip forward and realized it was going to hit his face. He cringed instinctively as it hit the glass on the nightstand, then sent the lamp crashing to the floor before hitting him on the face.

The sound of running feet, and someone took the headboard off of him. "Geeze, what kind of funny stuff is happenin' here?"

Kermit grunted, all he could get around the tape.

The man ripped off the gag, and Kermit gasped in pain. He ran his tongue over his torn lips. "Get me free!"

The scarf came off his eyes and Kermit realized it was night outside. Blinking neon light came through the half-closed curtains. "What the hell happened?  
Where's Mrs. Keetman?" the clerk asked.

"That's...what I want to know," Kermit rasped.

The man paused with his hands on the wire. "Maybe I should call the police."

"I am the police," Kermit snarled. "Get some pliers!"

"You are? Geeze. You cops live an exciting..." he caught Kermit's glare. "Okay, I'll go get some pliers. Don't go anywhere!"

Kermit stared after him angrily. Where the hell would I be going? he thought impatiently. He could feel blood all over his right wrist. Damn, the squad will think that I've tried committing suicide or something. Damn, damn, damn.

 

Peter replaced the top on his cup of coffee and shifted uncomfortably in the short seat of his Dodge Stealth. The sun had long set over the warehouse on Wilson. Only the knowledge that Strenlich, covering the warehouses on the north side, was probably just as uncomfortable, saved Peter from grumbling.  
A shrill sound cut the air, and Peter slammed his hand on his beeper, shutting it off. He glanced at the number displayed. Strenlich. With one last glare at the empty warehouse, he picked up the radio's microphone. "Yeah?"

"Peter, you'd better get down here!" Strenlich said in a low tone. "A bunch of guys just showed up and are moving boxes."

"Look like my friends from this morning?"

"They all look alike," groused the dour chief. "But there are Arizona plates on the van they're loading. Get down here! I'm calling for backup."

"I'm on my way," Peter said, his gaze still trained on the warehouse. He replaced the microphone and started his engine. Driving away, he was nearly nearly side-swiped by a limousine.

Frowning, he debated putting his red light up and ticketing the driver, then remembered where he was headed. He started to turn, then saw another limousine pass him. 

Pulling around a corner, he made a U-turn and started trailing the limousines till he saw them slowing in front of a warehouse. Several people got out of the first car, laughing and joking, and went over to the side door. The door opened, sending a shaft of sparkling light over the wall of the warehouse, next door. Then the people went inside, and the door shut. The limousine drove off. The world returned to black and white just in time for another limousine to drive up.

Peter couldn't stand it. He parked his car, got quietly out of it and, sliding through the shadows, got closer.

Music. He could hear music, a driving beat like from a band at a night club. It definitely came from the building. 

Footsteps behind him. He swung around ready for a fight, but stopped abruptly as a familiar figure walked out of the shadows. He wore tailored black, a fall of white ruffles down his front, his walk was as familiar as the beating of Peter's heart. "Pop?"

Caine smiled gently. "Peter?"

"What the hell are you doing here, Pop?"

"I have... an invitation," Caine said softly. "From Rykker."

"Rykker? The invitation that he was talking about?" Peter shook his head unconsciously.

"Yes. For the Mercenaries' Ball." Caine waved towards the door. "Did you not...know about it? He said...he had given you one."

"Yeah, but I never got it. He called me," Peter suddenly remembered, "and said you had an extra. You still got it?"

A limousine drew up to the door, and the driver sprang out, opening the back door. A man in a thick overcoat stepped out, extending his hand to the someone in the back seat. 

"Yes, I have the ticket," Caine nodded. He drew a sharp breath as he stared at the limousine. Peter turned and his eyes went wide in shock. 

Danielle Keetman, clad in a electric green dress, that emphasised her breasts and long legs, and her wheat hair loose around her shoulders, stepped out of the limousine and slid her arm through the crook of the unknown man's arm. They went on to the door where a man checked their credentials, then admitted them.

Peter met Caine's questioning face. "I thought she was with Kermit. If she's with that guy, then where is Kermit?"

"Why don't we follow her inside... and see?" Caine said quietly. 

"I'm not really dressed -- "

"You are a young man," his father broke in. "They will think... a black leather jacket is... appropriate."

Peter grinned. "My Pop, the fashion critic."

"Appropriate dress... for an appropriate situation. Let us go... and ask about Kermit. He may be inside."

"I doubt it." Peter followed Caine towards the door. "I hope he's okay." He forgot to call Strenlich to tell him he wasn't going to the bust. 

 

Jody was pulling down the minimal skirt on her hooker's dress when she saw the man stagger into the squadroom and catch himself on the edge of a desk. 

"Kermit? What the hell happened to you?" She ran over to him, catching him before he fell over a chair. She looked at his face and her blood ran cold.

Whatever looked out of Kermit's eyes for a second was unlike the man she worked with daily. It was cold, deadly and dispassionate. Then it dropped. The Kermit she knew was back, a bit wobbly, but no longer a stranger. "Hi, Jody."

"Don't play strong and stoic with me, Kermit Griffin," she said harshly. "What happened to you?"

"Where's Peter?" Kermit asked painfully, leaning on her arm as she helped him across the darkened squadroom. The few men on night shift seemed to all be on a break and the room was empty.

"Out on a lead on that gun merchant. He said there was going to be some meeting tonight. I was just heading out."

Kermit stopped abruptly. "Meeting?"

"Yeah." She misinterpreted his expression. "He and Strenlich are down at the warehouses--"

"Warehouses! I've got to get dressed," Kermit said thickly, shaking himself free and heading for his office.

She followed him through the doorway. "What the hell are you planning, Kermit? What the hell happened?" 

He tore off the tie and began unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it out of his pants. "I got sandbagged."

"By Danielle Keetman?"

"Except that she wasn't Danielle Keetman," he said savagely, tossing the shirt to one side. He swayed unexpectedly. His hand went to his head. "Do you have anything to drink?" 

Jody frowned. She pulled out the chair and shoved him into it. "You've got a concussion, Kermit. You should be in a hospital."

"I'm not going to a hospital!"

She stared at him exasperated. "You're as pig-headed as Peter!" His expression was grim. "You are, you know. All right, I'm going to get some ice for that lump and, you're going to tell me all about what happened." She caught his right arm, seeing the bloody cuts on his wrist, then, the puncture over the vein. "Drugs?"

He frowned. "I don't need any help."

She ignored his stupid comment. "What did they use?" Her voice softened as she touched the mark.

"Probably sodium pentothal," he replied tiredly. 

"Truth serum? What'd they want from you?"

Kermit was incapable of not answering. "They wanted to know -- "

She stopped him, her hand on his mouth. "You can't help yourself, can you?" She searched his face for a minute, seeing an unaccustomed helplessness. 

He stared back at her, pleading for understanding. For a second, Jody was tempted to take advantage of him. Then she realized she couldn't live with herself if she did, and Kermit would never again trust her if she did. It wasn't worth giving in. "Don't tell me now. I'll ask you sometime when you can fight back. It'd be fairer. I'll be back in a second." She let go of his arm and went out of the office.

Kermit stared after her and laughed, catching himself before he moved his head too much. It was good having friends who wouldn't take advantage of you. Friends like that were worth dying for. Unfortunately most of his had already died. He caught the edge of the desk and took a deep breath. The little black spots in front of his eyes dissipated. 

He turned his attention back to getting his formal wear out of the garment bag and fishing the black nylon socks and polished shoes from the bottom. He put them carefully beside the keyboard, and began stripping.

By the time she returned with several ice cubes wrapped in a cloth he'd pulled on the trousers, and was attempting to button all the buttons on the pleated white dress shirt. They kept coming out in the wrong holes. 

"I'll get them," she said, handing him the ice bag. "Put that on your head. It might help."

He felt instantly better when he laid it on the lump. She pulled the shirt out of his pants and began efficiently fastening the buttons in the proper holes. 

"Put your chin up," Jody commanded. He obeyed, and she fastened the last button. He pulled on his cummerbund and she tied it in the back. 

"I've got a tie somewhere in there."

"I've got it." She pulled the black ribbon from the garment bag and looked at it dubiously. "I don't know how to tie this."

"I do." Kermit took the ribbon from her hands, and began tying it. 

Jody went over to the garment bag and got out his jacket. By the time she turned around, she caught sight of Kermit tucking his large gun in the back of his pants. "What kind of a party is this, Kermit?" she inquired.

"It's a closed party for some old friends of mine," he replied grimly. 

"You must have some heavy-duty old friends." 

"They are. That's why I'm going alone." He took the coat from her hands and put it on, buttoning it in the front.

She held up the key ring out of his reach, ignoring his menacing scowl. "We're going together. You shouldn't show up without an escort," she took a deep breath, almost popping out of her tight leather dress, "and you're going to need some back-up. Now, let's go, Kermit."

"Wearing that?" He said harshly, sneering. "You'll get us picked up by the police."

"Tonight, this is haute couture. Tomorrow, it's pure Vice. All depends on how you play it." Jody laughed, then cut it off, seeing the sound made him flinch. "Don't forget the ice pack."

 

Caine held out the card and Peter tried to stay as cool as the guard at the front door examined the invitation. 

After a second, the man handed back the pasteboard card and opened the door.

Dancing lights from two spinning mirrored balls reflected white spots over much of the two-leveled warehouse. A fretwork of metal supported the second level where tables were set up for more intimate dinners. Metal staircases descended to each corner of the cavernous room. Red exit signs over doors were the only non-decorative element in the rooms.

The warehouse was filled with women in elegant dresses and over-painted faces, men dressed in black tie, some with military medals which Peter doubted they deserved. There was a mixture of accents and perfumes on the air-conditioned air. The room was filled with people he wouldn't associate with normally unless he could find a reason to arrest them. Numerous dark-clad people, bodyguards probably, followed their charges and jockeyed for position. Waiters circled offering champagne, wine, water, and soda. Other waiters, most of them women in long maroon skirts and matching vests, circled carrying platters of smoked salmon or stuffed jalapenos. 

Against the far wall a band was playing something innocuously meaningless that wasn't even melodic when mixed with the discussions going on. Across from the band were the buffet tables, filled with braziers and platters of rich desserts, different meats, salads; enough food to make an inauguration look cheap. The party-goers broke into little clumps, heading for the buffets or the small tables set on the perimeter of the dance floors. 

Out of the crowd came a familiar figure. "I'm glad you came, Caine," Rykker said urbanely. The former mercenary wore his trademark black suit with a white silk neckcloth. He looked unchanged from their last meeting when he had been shot helping Caine and the others escape a Swiss castle. 

Caine smiled back at him. "This is all...yours?" He waved around the room.

Rykker smiled thinly. "Only the bills. Peter, have you heard from Blaisdell recently? I have to talk to you about your foster father."

Peter shook his head. "I haven't heard a thing, Rykker, but I really need to talk with you!"

The mercenary raised an eyebrow at the vehemence. "Really? Let's go over to the buffets and talk."

Peter remembered Rykker had said he wanted to talk about Blaisdell. "Pop..." Peter turned but Caine was no longer at his side. The priest had vanished into the crowds. 

 

Jody parked the car behind a familiar Dodge Stealth and glanced at Kermit. 

He looked very different from the man she worked with daily. His white skin was sallow, and his eyes were closed. His face looked naked without the green shades he hid behind.

"Peter's here," she said conversationally, unfastening her belt.

Kermit opened his eyes and stared at the car in front of them. "How'd he get here?"

"Got lucky, I guess," she said. "How're you planning to get in, Kermit?"

"I know the guy at the door." He climbed out and they started across the street. "Jody, let me warn you--probably everyone here will be armed."

"What? What kind of people are these, Kermit?"

He shrugged. "Arms dealers, mercenaries, crooks..."

"You know these people?"

"My past is as murky as the Marianas Trench and contains few friends." He flashed her a rare, amused smile.

She reflected for a second. "Well, it makes a change from soliciting johns on Main Street. Let's go."

 

Peter and Rykker climbed to the second story and found a reasonably private table near one of the staircases. The former occupants had been moved out by Rykker's armed guards but hovered nearby hopeful of returning. 

"What is it, Rykker?" Peter asked, his plate full of pizza triangles and shrimp bathed in cocktail sauce. 

Rykker sat down at the table and signaled for a couple of glasses of champagne. He frowned at the young man. "How much do you know about your foster father's background, Peter?"

"I know he was a mercenary," Peter said around a mouthful of pizza. "He and Kermit worked together, you -- "

"You don't know the most of it, then," Rykker said sharply. He shook his head. "That's what I thought." 

"Much about what? Listen, you've got other problems -- "

"No, you've got problems, Peter, so listen up," Rykker cut him off ruthlessly. He glanced around him and noted who was close enough to overhear him. 

Lowering his voice, he said, "Blaisdell ran one of the best arms and mercenary business in the world, and he ran it for years. He was well respected by many very ruthless people; he was a major player. Now that he's gone, everyone is jockeying for turf and that could led to bloodshed."

Peter looked around. "In here?"

"I couldn't ask them to check their guns at the door, so assume everyone is armed," Rykker said grimly. "This is the Fortune 500 of the mercenary world, Peter. If the major players aren't here, then their representatives are. The rumors about Paul are ugly and confused; I want to send them a clear message, but I have to know for certain that either he's coming back or that he's not."

Peter hesitated. "He's not dead...at least, I don't think so. He's not going back into that business."

"His name is enough to stop vendettas," Rykker commented. "I'll take your word for it that he's not coming back -- "

"Who is that?" Peter interrupted, his gaze on a man coming up the staircase.

"Who?"

"That man. The one over there in the tuxedo."

"Everyone's wearing...oh, my. Oh, my word." Rykker's eyebrows went up and he clicked his tongue. "I never expected to see him again. Alive, at least."

"Who?"

"Alexander Keetman. He's South African military. A Colonel now, I believe."

Peter stared at him blankly, then back at Keetman who was leaning on the railing overlooking the dance floor, a glass in his hand. His ash-blond hair was brushed back neatly and even in the room's odd lighting, Peter could see the man's deep tan from years under a hot sun.

"Keetman?"

"Do you know him, Peter?" Rykker questioned. "You seem to recognize him."

"Do you know a Danielle Keetman?"

"Of course. She's his wife. A lovely woman," Rykker said urbanely. "I've gotten to know her well."

"She's in town. In fact, I saw her come in tonight."

"Impossible!" Rykker exploded. "He'd never bring her into this company."

Peter glanced at him startled by the emphatic tone. "A woman named Danielle Keetman came to see Kermit today, and they went off together. I saw her come in here with another man."

Rykker stared at him, then around the room below through the wire-mesh of the floor they sat on. "If someone's impersonating Danielle, I'd better make sure Keetman doesn't find out. Can you find this woman and get her out?"

"I'm more worried about Kermit!" Peter exploded. "We haven't heard from him in hours, and now the woman he had lunch with is flirting with someone else on the dance floor!"

Rykker caught his arm as he stood. "Peter, I don't know what's going on but I'm going to find out. I'm also going to spread the word about Blaisdell, but I want you to be careful with your family."

Peter was momentarily disoriented. "My family? Which one? Caine or Blaisdell?"

"Blaisdell. He had enemies, Peter, enemies with long memories. I wouldn't be surprised if the family got a visit. I'll try to defuse the situation and make sure that they don't become a target."

"A visit from whom?" Peter said ominously.

"I don't know. But if Blaisdell's out of the loop, then putting his family in danger is futile. There's no leverage." Rykker stood up. "It's all a matter of leverage, Peter."

Peter looked over to where Keetman had straightened up and was drinking from his wine glass. The man's gaze scanned the crowd restlessly. "Do you think he's one of them?"

"I don't know. I'll go over there and find out. Find out who the woman is impersonating his wife, and get her out of here, Peter!"

Peter took a step, then wheeled around. "Rykker, how do you know her?"

Rykker gave a crooked smile. "Seventeen or so years ago, I went out big-game hunting for a South African called Keetman. I lost."

"He lived?"

"I was moving in, but his wife and second-in-command ambushed us, and nearly wiped out the team." Rykker shook his head. "Danielle was the one who caught me."

"Why didn't she kill you?" Peter asked curiously.

"They needed my help to get Keetman to a hospital. His wounds were very serious." Rykker looked at Keetman who was suddenly intently watching someone, leaning across the metal railing to get a better look. "Who is he looking at?"

Peter stared across the room, his eyes narrowing. "That man in the corner there. The one with the bodyguard." The lighting was so bad where the man was sitting that Peter couldn't see him clearly enough beyond that description. 

Rykker's jaw dropped. "This is definitely becoming dangerous, Peter. That's Nicholas Steshka and his bodyguard, Hsi. I'd better keep them separate from Keetman."

"Who?"

"Blood enemies. They should never be in the same room together." The South African was staring at the Russian like a cheetah who has seen prey. 

Peter felt a chill go down his spine as Rykker moved towards the soldier. He turned and looked down at the mass of people dancing and laughing. He could see the front doorway where the doorman was letting in a familiar pair. "Kermit and Jody? Oh, my God."

 

Kermit and Jody moved out of the way of the door as more party-goers came inside.

"What a bunch of thugs," she murmured loud enough for him to hear.

Kermit grimaced. "I know. Do you see Danielle?"

She scanned the crowd. "It's too crowded. Want me to mingle or stick around? How are you?" He gave her an impatient stare and she glared back, then grinned. "Recovering, I see. I'll see if I can find Peter and warn him."

"Sure. I'll go this way. Watch yourself." 

They separated into the crowd. By the time she had gotten half-way around the room, Jody was sure that every person there was armed, probably illegally, and that a certain number of them were into illicit substances, while others probably had sidelines in murder and mayhem. The crowd made her skin crawl, particularly when a man or woman would look at her, assess the merchandise, then dismiss her. All the businessmen were discussing illegal behavior, from gun running to stealing nuclear material, as if it was government policy, with a fine disregard for how it would affect real people. She reached the door in time to see Kermit accosted by a tall, pot-bellied man in black tie. 

"Griff!" the man boomed in a Texas accent, and gave him a hug before he could resist. 

"Bob Williams! I haven't seen you since Windhoek. I have to talk to you," Kermit said urgently, stepping out of reach. 

"Can I join in?" Jody inquired in a light tone, stepping up beside him. Kermit's frown didn't deter her.

"Jody, get me a drink. The waiter over there..." Kermit said quietly. She flicked a glance at him, then took the hint, moving to the right toward the waiter as another man stepped out of the crowd to join them. 

Bob smiled broadly at the newcomer, "Hey, Antony! Long time, no see."

"It has been a long time, Bob," Antony replied, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Nice seeing you too, Kermit. I didn't expect it." He held out his hand to shake.

From Kermit's expression, Jody knew there was something going on, but he responded calmly, while avoiding the outstretched hand. "Why don't you come with us, Holms? I wouldn't mind having a talk about old times."

Antony nodded, his hand sinking to his side. "Yes, let's get caught up."

Bob ignored the tension between the men. "I left my wife and kids at home though. It's all wallpaper and home decorating today. Why should we go outside and talk?"

Holms turned his head slightly as the click of high-heels came from behind him. He stepped away from the other two. 

The woman in green looked at Kermit, and her face went white, then she reached behind the bustle of the green dress, and pulled out a gun. From the look on her face and on Kermit's, the jig was up. "Get out of my way!" she snarled. 

Kermit shoved Williams towards one of the walls as she fired. Either her aim was poor, or she was torn between shooting Kermit or Williams because the bullet caught Williams in the upper chest and he toppled.

"Jesus!" Jody trained her small gun on Carla, who was aiming at Kermit. "Freeze, dammit!"

The room exploded in screams and the sound of overturned tables and chairs as people sought cover. Holms disappeared into the crowd. Jody knew she had been right earlier to assume everyone was armed. They were waving their guns, except the ones next to the confrontation who were training their guns on the scenario in front of them. It would take only one shot to ignite the dynamite.

"Carla, it's too late!" Kermit snarled, holding up his hand. "Give up!"

Carla ignored his command as her finger began to pull the trigger. 

Both Kermit and Jody's guns went off at the same moment. The woman in green crumpled to the concrete floor, her gun landing under one of the caterer's tables. 

The room exploded into gunfire as the shot triggered reactions. Screams rang out as people dodged behind their tables or companions, and the walls were pitted by random shots. One of the shots hit a mirrored ball and the room was sprayed with broken mirror. The screaming took on a hysterical edge. 

Williams put his hand over the wound in his chest. He wore a very puzzled expression. "Kermit?"

"I'm here," Kermit said grimly, kneeling beside him. He pulled open the man's coat to see the bloody wound. "We're getting a doctor, Bob."

Jody knelt by the dead woman and closed her eyes. The green dress was saturated with blood, a garish parody of Christmas wrapping paper. "Kermit will explain everything later," she commented grimly. "We're going to have a massacre, Kermit, if we don't do something here and now!"

Across the room, one of the overturned braziers ignited an oil-soaked tablecloth and flames shot up. Fear of fire overcame the fear of being shot and the guests began running for the emergency exits. Even for trained mercenaries, the situation was out of control.

Jody saw the incongruous figure of Caine suddenly appear with a tablecloth and began fighting the flames. A giant Chinese bodyguard helped him but a billow of smoke hid them both from view.

Kermit looked around, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. He checked the room around them. "Where's Holms?"

 

Peter fought his way through the smoke and surging crowds. The warehouse's sprinkler system came on, soaking the crowd, and slicking the parquet dance floor. The fires were doused by the freezing spray and the efforts of some of the guests and waiters. 

"Looks like the party's over," Rykker said soberly behind him. "I'd better go make sure there are no fatalities." He disappeared among the guests. Most of the people had escaped, leaving a rubble of half-eaten food on broken crockery, and unopened bottles of champagne next to pyramids of crystal glasses.

Peter stared at Kermit seeing that the man was ashen. "Kermit, are you okay?"

Kermit glared at him. "I'm fine, Peter." 

Jody looked disgusted. "Pig-headed idiot. Now that we're done here, I'll take you to the hospital."

"Hospital?" Peter asked puzzled. 

She glared at Kermit. "Concussion."

Kermit's attention suddenly caught by someone in the shadows near Jody. "Jody! Watch out!" He raised his gun as Holms came out of the shadows almost on top of her.

She didn't have a chance to move before Holms wrenched back her arm painfully, holding her as a shield from all the guns suddenly pointing at him. "Put your guns down on the floor and kick them under the tables. ALL OF YOU!" Holms commanded.

Kermit looked as if he were ready to shoot through Jody to get to Holms, but after a second, he uncocked his gun and put it gently on the concrete floor. Peter followed suit. 

"Get away from the door," Holms commanded, moving towards it with Jody struggling in his grasp. 

Kermit felt a hand tug his sleeve. He looked down at Williams, who smiled weakly. He let go, and his hand brushed back his tuxedo jacket, exposing a gun butt. Jody saw it too and began struggling to get Holms' attention as Kermit's hand drifted down toward the gun. 

Caine appeared out of the crowd and moved towards the door, his movements unobtrusive. Holms didn't notice him. 

Jody's struggles ended when she felt Holms' gun against her neck. 

"Let her go!" Peter yelled, stepping forward, attracting Holms' attention. 

A breeze went by Peter. The bullet just missed his arm.

Holms ducked, dragging Jody back through the open door. They fell outside into the darkened alley behind the warehouse.

Peter turned and saw Kermit with an unfamiliar gun, the muzzle smoking.

Turning back, he saw Rykker was already at the door, half-hidden behind it, taking cover as Holms fired, the bullets leaving a pattern of dents in the door.

"Now what?" Peter gasped as a bullet ricochetted off the metal. 

The firing unexpectedly stopped. Peter heard a cry of pain, a thump and a gun clattered on the macadam. Holms' gun went flying across Peter's view. He couldn't resist and peered around the corner.

Holms let go of Jody to defend himself from Caine's unexpected attack. He reeled back from a side kick. 

Kermit tore past Peter, and hit Holms hard. Their bodies hit the concrete wall and tumbled to the floor.

Peter's impression was that Kermit was going to kill the man. The flurry of blows ended with a hard one to the jaw that tumbled Holms against the side of the warehouse. He collapsed on the concrete, blood dripping from his mouth.

Caine grabbed Kermit before the man could yank Holms up. "You have done enough!" he said in an unusually authoritarian tone that Peter had formerly heard only applied to him. 

For a second, Kermit struggled to tear himself away from the priest and continue the attack, but then he stopped. "Maybe you're right." 

He slumped and Caine caught him, his face full of worry. He stared at Kermit's eyes, seeing the traces of concussion. "How many fingers... do I have up?"

Kermit stared at him. "None."

"Correct. You aren't... as sick as you look."

"Jesus, Kermit," Peter said coming up. "Who the hell was that?"

"An old partner," Kermit said wearily. He let his head sink into his hands.

"You should be in a hospital," Peter said reproachfully. 

"No hospitals," Kermit grated. "I hate hospitals."

"I will take... care of this," Caine said calmly. 

Peter looked at his father who was staring at him with an expression of "Go away, Peter." 

He looked at Kermit who was rubbing his eyes, then up at Jody who was staring at Holms' unconscious body. "I'll go see how Rykker's doing."

He heard the sound of sirens, both police and ambulance. The firing must have caught someone's attention. 

Inside the building, Rykker was talking on a cellular phone that he snapped shut as Peter came up. "Called the police. They're sending everyone they can round up and a couple of ambulances. We've got some bullet wounds in here."

"We'll need all the ambulances we can get," Peter said, looking at Williams, who was lying with his eyes shut. "How is he?"

"Not good. That ambulance had better get here soon." He stared beyond Peter at the body of Danielle, then around at the half-empty room, the lights still lit despite the constant spray of the sprinklers, the burners still alight under the chafing dishes, the chairs overturned in the dining area, and the occasionally groaning person still lying on the ground. "You folks ruined my party. Is `he' alive?"

Peter frowned, then his brow cleared. "The other guy? Yeah, he's alive. Pop took him out."

Rykker nodded, understanding how the fight must have gone. "How's Griffin?"

"He refuses to go to the hospital. Pop's with him. Rykker, did everyone in here have a gun?"

"Probably," the mercenary said with a grin. "At least one."

Peter shook his head. "Black tie and Tec-9s." He looked around and sighed. "I wonder what the hell this was all about?"

"The only one with the answers is Kermit Griffin," Rykker said. 

"I don't think he's going to tell us anything," Jody said from behind Peter. She looked curiously at Rykker as he excused himself and went outside.

"Hey, how're you..." Peter's voice trailed off as she gave him a reproachful look. "Doing?"

"I'll be fine when I can get the smell of his aftershave off. Filthy stuff," she snapped. She went over to Danielle's body and pulled out the small purse. "Think she'll have any ID, Peter?"

"No."

Jody held up a room key. "Maybe in her room?"

"My next stop," Peter said, holding out his hand.

"I'll stay here and clean up. You'd better get out there before Strenlich busts a blood vessel. Two major busts in one night will stress him out."

Peter looked out the doorway at the flashing lights which were getting brighter by the second. "You're right. I'll see you back at the precinct."

Outside, Rykker was joined by another man wearing black tie who looked at the array of police cars and uniformed officers, and shook his head in amazement.

"A very interesting party," the newcomer mused in his ear. 

The mercenary stiffened as he turned. "I was going to come over and talk with you, Colonel Keetman, just before this all blew up. Is this something you got involved in?"

Keetman shook his head. "I'm innocent of this massacre."

Rykker turned and faced him. "The woman in there was using Danielle's name. She was the one who started the shooting."

Keetman froze, his grey eyes narrowing, dangerously, his hands unconsciously flexing. "Why?" His tone was politely disinterested and cool. 

"I don't know. You tell me." Rykker saw nothing but the mask Keetman wore in polite company. "We'll have to find it out from Griffin."

"Griffin?"

"Kermit Griffin," Rykker said, eyeing Keetman who looked mildly puzzled.

"Kermit Griffin...why is that name familiar -- of course. I remember him now." Keetman shook his head again. "That was a long time ago."

"He's a policeman now. A detective. He's over there." Rykker looked across the road at Kermit and Caine who were talking with Strenlich. The two men stepped back as the chief nodded, then they walked away.

"A policeman?" Keetman gave a startled laugh. "I would never have expected it."

"Under Paul Blaisdell, who was the police captain in this area until he retired. You remember Blaisdell, no doubt?"

"Blaisdell became a policeman? Retired...that's interesting," Keetman said thoughtfully. "So, Griffin knows why this woman was impersonating Dani?"

"He's the only one," Rykker agreed. 

"You say he's a policeman now. Where?"

"101st Precinct." Rykker asked suddenly, "Why are you in town? You've never come here before, Keetman. Is it Blaisdell?"

Keetman's gaze was on the police cars that made the street look like a county fair with flashing lights and sirens. "It's none of your business, Rykker."

Peter stepped out of the building and waved to the blond woman who stepped out of her car, the officers deferring to her as she stalked towards him. 

Simms looked around keenly, her eyes meeting Keetman's. Her expression sharpened with interest but someone walked between them, and the link was broken. By the time he could see her again, Peter was talking fast and waving his hands.

"Who is that?" Keetman asked sharply. He led her inside.

"I believe it's Blaisdell's replacement," Rykker replied. "Captain Karen Simms."

Keetman said in a lighter tone, "A woman police captain. This is a broad-minded country."

"And all the better for it," Rykker said sharply.

"I agree. It will be a long time before my country has a woman captain, though," Keetman concluded regretfully. "Who is the other man, Rykker?"

"Peter Caine," Rykker said with great satisfaction. "He's a cop and a good one. He's also Blaisdell's foster son."

"Foster son? Really? That's a new twist."

"Didn't your files mention him?"

Keetman laughed like a ghost. "I don't keep up on everyone, Rykker. Only on my friends and my enemies. My files haven't included Paul Blaisdell for years."

After the paramedics had looked him over, Holms was hauled to his feet by two uniformed policeman and handcuffed him. They led him to a police car.  
Rykker waved until Peter saw him. "I'll be right in, Peter," he called.

"Gentlemen, may I see your identification?" Strenlich loomed out of the crowd, holding out his hand. The young policeman next to him had a pad of paper.

Strenlich took the passport Keetman held out. "A South African diplomatic passport?" the chief mused. "What are you going here, Mr. Keetman?"  
Keetman smiled. "Going to a party, officer."

Strenlich reacted to the overly polite tone by stiffening angrily. The English accent made Keetman sound condescending even if he wasn't. "It's been quite a party." He handed the passport to the officer who began taking down the information. "Planning to leave town soon?"

"Not very soon," Keetman replied politely. "I have business here."

"Did you see what happened inside? The shooting?"

Keetman shrugged. "I was upstairs when it happened. I missed all the excitement."

Rykker confined himself to flicking a quick curious glance. A casual listener would take Keetman at his words; the ex-mercenary didn't. 

"I would like you to come to the 101st Precinct tomorrow to discuss what happened," Strenlich said brusquely. "We'll get your hotel arrangements just in case there is a problem and we need to reach you tonight. I'm sure you'll understand, Colonel." 

Keetman nodded politely. "I assure you that nothing would keep me from coming to see the police tomorrow. I'm staying at the Sutton Place Hotel. Room two twenty-six," he added.

Strenlich noted the number down, and handed back the passport which Keetman slid in the outer pocket of his coat. "I'll make sure I'm there."

"Why don't we go inside, officer?" Rykker said before warfare could erupt between Keetman and Strenlich. Why the two men didn't like each other wasn't clear; that they didn't, was. "I'm Rykker and this was my party."

There was a sound like a backfire and Holms slumped over the roof of the patrol car, blood spurting from his back.

"Damn!" Rykker cursed his hand going to his gun, as everyone in the street reacted to the sudden assassination. The officers beside Holms dropped into a crouch beside the open door while the others ducked behind cars or hit the ground. 

Strenlich swiveled around, his gun out, scanning the area for any sign of the gunman. "Spread out! Watch out! Find the shooter!" he barked when nothing else happened.

A strong hand stopped Rykker from drawing his gun. Looking around, he saw Keetman hadn't reacted except by grabbing his arm and scanning the area for the attacker. He stared suspiciously at the South African. Did he know something Rykker didn't?

"Let the police handle it," Keetman suggested calmly. "That's what they are there for."

"What...did you expect this, Keetman?" Rykker questioned in an undertone.

"With all the vendettas afoot tonight?" Keetman replied in a matching tone. He let go of Rykker's arm. "I'm surprised that half your guests are still alive."

"Got any ideas of who or why?" Strenlich asked, turning to stare at Rykker. "It was your party, after all."

"No ideas," Rykker said tersely. "I don't think you'll catch him, though."

The policemen began to relax as no more shots came out of the darkness. More police cars began to arrive clogging the streets and the sirens reverberated off the walls of the neighboring buildings like a rock-and-roll band with a single beat. Rykker and Strenlich went to the warehouse, leaving Keetman rocking on his heels and studying the area carefully before he backed slowly and unobtrusively out of the crowd, loosening his tie as he went and unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket. No one noticed him leaving. 

Going around a corner, he saw Caine and Kermit had stopped by a large green antique convertible. They argued for a minute, but the older man finally led the staggering man to where he waved down a cab. 

Keetman flagged the next cab and told the driver to follow the earlier automobile. When he balked, the soldier waved several large bills in his face. The driver gave in.

They trailed the taxi until it stopped in front of a building in Chinatown. Caine helped Kermit out of the taxi, and led him inside the unmarked door which swung closed behind them. 

Keetman paid off the taxi driver, stepped up to the door, and knocked.

The sound echoed hollowly. No footsteps. Keetman tried the doorknob, and to his great surprise, it was unlocked. He glanced back at the street where  
two people, a whore leaning to talk to someone in a Saab and, on the other side of the street, a bundle of rags that rocked back and forward as the homeless man sang to himself, were the only living inhabitants. Keetman stepped inside the hallway, and went up the stairs to the second floor where he saw the ghostly light of flickering candles under another door. He opened it. Hearing voices in the back, he treaded stealthily towards them.  
Caine stepped out of the inner room before he could get very far. His face was stern. "Who are you?"

Keetman stopped short. "I'm looking for Kermit Griffin."

Caine blinked in surprise. "Why are you looking... for him?" he questioned.

"That's my business," Keetman replied with a slight smile. "Not yours."

Caine stiffened. "You are in my home uninvited. Please... leave."

Keetman saw Caine was shifting to a martial arts stance even though his gaze never moved. Unconsciously, he reacted by letting his hand drift to where his gun was, then stopped. There was no need to provoke a battle at this time. He'd see Griffin tomorrow at the precinct. "It's very important that I speak with Kermit Griffin. Would you at least let him have my business card?" He slowly and carefully opened the left side of his jacket. He held his card out to Caine who accepted it warily. "I will be at the 101st Precinct tomorrow around noon and hope to see him there. It is very important."

"I...will tell him," Caine said examining the card. "You are Colonel Keetman?"

"Yes. He'll know the name. At least, I hope he remembers," Keetman said with a ghost of a laugh. "'Till tomorrow, Mr..."

"I am...Caine." He waved his hand around. "A priest."

Keetman raised an eyebrow. "A priest? A Chinese doctor -- "

"An apothecary," Caine interrupted. 

Someone groaned in the inner room, and Keetman turned his head abruptly. He wasn't likely to forget that sound. He had heard it for hours from the back of a Land Rover.

Caine moved between him and the door to the inner room. "You are leaving?" he said politely but firmly.

Keetman folded his jacket over his arm. "Very well. Tomorrow, then, Mr. Caine. I hope he is feeling better by then."

Caine bowed his head politely, then watched him leave, his eyes deep with suspicion.

The soldier walked outside into the cool night air, and took a deep breath. Around him, the street was deserted except for a couple of bats taking the air, and the sound of rats gnawing on garbage in the dumpster around the corner.

He started toward the brighter lights of main street. The prostitute had moved on and the homeless man was asleep beside a stoop. It was a peace-filled night.

A half-block away, from a cross-street, he realized a livery cab had just pulled up behind him.

Sliding his hand under the jacket, he took a grip on the small gun in his belt, and turned.

The huge man who stepped out of the shadows just to the right of his shoulder, took him by surprise. "Teng? Where's Steshka?" 

A powerful slam on Keetman's shoulder knocked the slender man off-balance against the car. Keetman dropped his gun, trying to right himself. Teng hit him again.

The window came down on the passenger's side, directly in front of Keetman's face. "Hsi!" he gasped. 

Teng hit Keetman once more and the man staggered back against a wire wastebasket before he passed out on the sidewalk. 

The driver stopped, and Hsi and Teng picked up Keetman's unconscious body and bundled him into the trunk, then drove off. The discarded jacket dangled from the basket.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two of the story is set in 1995

Peter climbed the stairs to the hotel room where the false Danielle Keetman had been staying.

The room clerk followed, stifling a yawn. "I'm almost off shift, man."

"Just let me in," Peter snapped. "What can you tell me about the woman?"

"Well, she's into cops," the man snickered. "I mean, she had one all tied up on the bed. At least, he said he was a cop."

Peter stopped and stared at him, then stifled a grin. He'd have a time talking to Kermit about his afternoon. Lucky no one else was here. "How about before the cop?"

"Huh. Well, there was this other guy, a Brit, you know, but he was always looking around for action. He was dropped off the first time by some guy with a limo, you know, but no one ever talked to me," the clerk said with a peevish tone. "Fancy clothes and snotty attitude." He opened the door to Carla's room with his key. "Here you go."

"That's all, thank you," Peter said stepping in. "I'll lock up when I leave."

The clerk hesitated. "You got a search warrant? I mean, Mrs. Keetman won't like this -- "

"She's dead," Peter snapped. He flipped open his badge again. "I'm investigating her death. Your Brit's dead too." 

The man's eyes went wide. "Oh. Wow."

"I'll tell you when I leave," said Peter, closing the door in the other's face. 

He scanned the empty room. The bedclothes were mussed and the headboard sat in the middle of them. Several lengths of wire lay among the sheets, one coated with blood, while a black scarf was tossed on the floor along with a wad of tape. The blue designer suit was tossed carelessly over one chair, with the matching high-heels kicked underneath. An ice bucket, a few strands of Kermit's hair adhered to the bottom, sat on the dresser. Beside the bed were several hypodermics, most still wrapped in plastic, and a small bottle of liquid.

Peter could read what happened in here fairly well. He wouldn't have to ask Kermit about his day off. 

He looked at the label. "Sodium pentothal," he muttered. "Jesus, Kermit. You got some friends." He replaced the bottle on the dresser and picked up the green sunglasses, putting them in his pocket.

He found her suitcase stashed in the closet along with an overnight bag. He pulled the latter out and sat down at the small table to paw through the contents. 

There was a passport for Carla Costca issued in Portugal, several well-creased letters written in Spanish or Portuguese, a picture of a burly man with his arm around a considerably younger Danielle/Carla and standing over a dead lion, a couple of paperback novels, and a manila file folder with creased edges. 

He flipped open the folder and began to read.

A minute later, he realized he had dynamite in his hands. That suntanned visitor at the Mercenaries' Ball had a very strong connection with Kermit Griffin. Peter had to talk to Kermit and fast. Did he know that Colonel Keetman was in town? Peter thought back on the meeting in the squadroom and couldn't remember the false Danielle saying anything about her husband being in town. 

Peter snapped shut the file, and tucked it under his arm. He made one sweep of the bathroom, which held only the usual female paraphernalia, and then let himself out of the hotel room.

He stopped at the clerk desk. He was doing the crossword in the back of the TV Guide. 

"I'm getting a team in here to go over the room. Don't let anyone in," Peter ordered.

The clerk shrugged. "Sure. I'll leave a note for the day shift."

Peter was doubtful that the word would reach the day shift. At least, the police should be done by then. Outside, his radio was blaring his call signal.  
He tossed the manila folder on the front seat. "Baker-7," he said into the mike. 

"Get back here," Strenlich ordered acidly. "We have a crowd of mercenaries in black tie to take statements from as well as your gun-runners. We need you down here, Peter!"

"I'm on my way," Peter replied briskly, and started his engine. "Chief, we need a team out here to seal Costca's room."

"Costca?" Strenlich sounded harassed. 

"Tell you about it later." He drove the Stealth through the dark streets and parked it outside the police station, which was ablaze with lights.

The majority of the men and women being questioned wore evening dress and all talked loudly in different languages. The babble of voices rivaled Niagara Falls. The precinct was a madhouse. Broderick, who had obviously been called in from home, was coping with it in his usual unflappable style. A phalanx of uniformed officers flanked him, with several interpreters borrowed from other police stations. 

Peter tossed the file onto his cluttered desk, and scanned the crowd. "This is all you caught?" he asked Strenlich with a slight grin.

The Chief of Detectives gave him a sour look. "These were the ones who gave us trouble, Peter. We'll get all the particulars and probably release them."  
"Let them go?"

"These were the ones who clearly saw the shooting at the party."

"How about the one in the street?"

"Kermit's catch? No one saw who shot him, and there's no trace of any shooter either. Virtually everyone at the party was armed and each of them has a gun permit for their weapons. So, we get their statements and let them go," Strenlich fumed. "We've got nothing to arrest them for!"

Peter glanced at him. "Don't like them, eh?"

"Bunch of thugs," muttered the bullet-headed man. 

"Well-dressed thugs," Peter returned with a grin. "Where do you want me to start?"

"Your gunrunners need tending. They're downstairs."

"I'll tell Broderick to get a team over to the motel room..." Peter stopped. Strenlich's attention was clearly elsewhere. "Later."

"Right."

One of the uniformed policemen took Peter's order about searching Carla's room, but given the babel of voices, he wasn't sure that the information had been taken correctly. He hesitated, then headed downstairs for the gunrunners. He'd come back later and see if the team had gone out. 

Peter clattered off down the stairs meeting Skalany as she came in the front door. "Glad to see you."

"This had better be good," she growled at him. "I had a date tonight."

"Talk to the chief." Peter pointed upstairs. "He's up there. Oh, by the way? Your shirt's misbuttoned. Must have been a hot date."

She shot him a disgusted look, calling over her shoulder as she stalked upstairs, "I was asleep!" She fastened the last button, and smoothed down her shirt, making sure the bottom was tucked neatly into her tailored pants. "Chief? You rang?"

Strenlich looked harassed. "There was a huge party in a warehouse, a woman got shot and killed, Kermit and Peter were there, get the details from them later, but right now, get a pad and get started interrogating these people on what they saw," Strenlich ordered. She absorbed the information quickly, looking far more awake than she had seconds before. "Start with that one." He waved at a man who was patiently sitting on a chair, his eyes watching everything going on. He noticed Strenlich's gesture and rose as Mary Margaret went over. 

"Mr....?"

"Steshka," the man replied. "Nicholas Steshka."

She picked up a pad, and pulled out her pen. "If you'll follow me, we'll go somewhere a little quieter and talk."

"Certainly." She took him into one of the interrogation rooms.

"Mr. Steshka? You are from...?" she asked, clicking the pen and testing it for ink.

"I live in Angola currently," he answered, crossing his legs. He was a very good-looking man in his mid-fifties with grey at the temples of his brown hair, an expensively tailored suit and highly polished shoes. His accent was vaguely European. 

"Angola? What are you doing here, sir?" she inquired, making notes.

"I'm an international businessman, officer...uh," he hesitated delicately.

She smiled. "I'm Detective Mary Margaret Skalany." She held out her hand.

He shook it. "Charmed. As I said before, I'm in business and often have to visit the United States."

"And what kind of business do you do, Mr. Steshka?" Skalany asked.

"Diamonds," he replied urbanely.

Her eyes widened, despite her control. 

"I'm a diamond merchant. Oh, it's not all precious quality. Most of it is industrial dust, but that's my main line of work," he finished, seemingly amused by the effect of his words. 

She stared at him as a pang of dislike shot through her. He was too smooth, enjoying himself too much for her taste. "So, you were attending this party? Did you know the woman who was shot?"

"No." His reply rang a trifle false to Skalany's ear, but she had nothing to catch him on. His gaze met hers guilelessly. "She was beautiful, and I admired her, but I have no idea of why she started shooting at those other men. Maybe one of them turned her down."

Skalany noted his reply. "I see. Why were you at the party, sir?"

"I had an invitation," he replied politely. "Some of my usual customers were there."

"You're not originally from Angola, are you?" she asked abruptly. 

"I'm Russian," he answered. "That is where I grew up. I emigrated to Angola and started my business. Do you have any other questions?"

"Only one. I need your address if we have any more questions," she said.

"I am staying at the Hyatt, room twelve seventy-five."

"Are you traveling alone?" 

He smiled. "Quite alone, Detective. All alone," he added in a low suggestive tone. Her head went up in shock. His expression changed from interested to bland. "But my business colleagues will be joining me in a couple of days. They will also be at the Hyatt."

She stood, angry with herself at overreacting. She must have read him wrong. "That will be all, Mr. Steshka. Have a good night."

"Or morning," he added with a slight smile. "After all, it is morning."

Skalany smiled grimly. "Yes. It is."

She escorted him to the squadroom and watched as he went downstairs and out the front door. Peter brushed by him on the stairs but neither man noticed each other. 

"Having fun?" Peter asked.

"Loads." She turned to the next man who was sitting by the wall, flanked by two obvious 'dates,' their clothing as expensive as it was negligible. Mostly, they wore gems that flashed in the fluorescent overhead lights.

Peter saw the squadroom had been half-emptied as the party-goers left, leaving only the normal crowd of street hookers and other disturbers of the peace. Broderick grinned tiredly at him and waved, then went back to talking to an uniformed officer who was holding a young man obviously high on drugs. 

He stopped dead half-way to his desk. Seated in his chair was Captain Simms; she was reading the file. 

She looked up to meet his accusing glare. "I take it you went to her hotel room?" she asked, ignoring his unspoken condemnation. 

"Yeah," Peter said baldly. He sat on the edge of the next desk. "I ordered a team to seal it. The dead woman was Carla Costca -- "

"Related to Alphonse Costca?" Simms interrupted, tapping on the file. "One of the men in this file?"

"I guess so. It would make sense."

"Very little about tonight makes sense, Caine," she retorted. "Let me see if I'm clear about what happened tonight. You have brought in a set of gun runners, went to a party full of gun-toting international mercenaries where two people got shot." Peter opened his mouth, then shut it as she continued,  
"Jody told me about what happened to Kermit, but there is obviously more to it than she knows. This file fills in some of those holes. What we need is Kermit -- "

"He's not in any shape to talk right now," Peter cut in firmly. 

"You know where he is?"

"Yes, Captain." He met her crystal blue-eyed gaze unflinchingly. "He's safe. He'll be a lot more coherent tomorrow."

She smiled thinly, then relaxed. "He'll not want to talk about it tomorrow, Caine. You know that."

"He'll have to, Captain," Peter said reluctantly.

"Yes? Why?" she eyed him quizzically.

He pointed at the file. "The man who wrote that file was at the Ball." 

Her eyes widened for a second, and she flipped to the end of the report. "Captain Alexander Keetman? He was there."

"Yeah, he was the guy talking to Rykker when you arrived. He's a Colonel now in the South African military."

"Keetman?" Strenlich called unexpectedly from the other end of the room. "What about him?" 

Simms and Peter exchanged glances before looking at the Chief. "Do you know him, Chief?" she asked. "Did you meet him?"

Strenlich shrugged dismissively. "He was one of the guys at the Ball. He said he'd be in around noon tomorrow to give a statement."

"You let him go?" Peter asked a little more harshly than warranted.

The Chief stared at him in surprise. "Why not? I didn't like him, but that's no reason to arrest him. He had a diplomatic passport too, and who wants to drag in the Consulate?"

"He said he'd be in tomorrow?" shot Simms. 

"Yeah. Said he wouldn't miss it. He's at the Sutton Place Hotel if we need to get him now."

"It's two a.m., Captain," Peter cut in. "If we get him up now, I'm not sure he's going to cooperate any more than I would. Besides, he said he'd be here tomorrow, and I think he'll show."

She nodded. "Then we'll see if we can get everyone together tomorrow. I take it you'll produce Kermit?"

"I promise." Peter resolutely folded his arms. 

She tucked the folder under her arm. "I'll put this in my safe. Tomorrow, when we're all present and accounted for, we'll thrash this out. In the meantime, everyone get some rest."

Both men watched her go into her office and shut the door, then exchanged puzzled glances. "What's up, Pete?" Strenlich asked.

Peter passed his hand over his face, feeling tiredness seeping out of bones. "It's a mess, Chief. A Kermit-sized mess." Peter picked up his coat and slid  
into it. "I think I'll take the captain's advice."

Strenlich stopped him with an outstretched hand. "I saw Kermit leaving with your father. He looked like hell. Where is he, Pete?"

"He's with my Pop," Peter admitted. "Didn't want to go to the hospital."

"I understand that," Strenlich acknowledged. "Will he be all right?"

"What? Oh, sure." Peter yawned. "Just got conked on the head and drugged."

Strenlich blinked. "I expect a report, detective."

"Tomorrow, Chief. Tomorrow."

 

Keetman tasted blood in his mouth as he slowly awoke. His shoulders ached from his arms being raised above his head. He tried to move them and felt resistance. He couldn't move. He blinked and opened his eyes.

Just above his head was a red emergency exit sign with cracked glass and a dimly glowing bulb which barely illuminated the long dusty basement. The windows were caked with dried mud or blocked by tall grass uncut for summer, but the feeble light of a grey dawn was beginning to come through one broken window where the wire mesh was all that held the glass together. 

His legs were stretched out in front of him.

He shivered in the cool morning air. The room reeked of abandonment and neglect. He looked around slowly, feeling pain all over his body. Looking down, he saw he wasn't wearing his shirt, vest or undershirt; his chest was bare.

No gag? Where was he being held and by whom? He raised his aching head, feeling his neck and shoulder muscles protest, and called in a dry, cracked voice, "Is anyone there?"

"You're awake," said a familiar voice from the other end of the room where a door had just opened. Two men came in, one carrying a folding chair. "Did you sleep well? You look better than you did last night."

Keetman stared at him. "Steshka. What are you doing here?"

Steshka moved out of the bright light and sat down in the chair the other had set up. "I've been waiting for you to wake up, Colonel."

Keetman felt a bruise on his right shoulder where the monolithic thug, Teng, had hit him but, glancing from side to side, he didn't see the man. "Having fun?"

"I whiled away the time profitably."

"Where am I?" Keetman asked hoarsely.

"In the basement of an elementary school," Steshka replied amused. "The students won't be coming back for another month. No one can hear us."

The ease which he was getting information chilled Keetman. If there was any chance that he could be heard, Steshka would have gagged him. Where was the thug who'd hit him? "Where's your mammoth?"

"Teng has other business for me," Steshka said lightly. "Alexander, I want to know your security arrangements for the diamond shipment." 

The silence stretched to almost a minute before Keetman said warily, "Diamonds?"

"Don't play that game with me," Steshka replied coldly, the cordiality gone from his tone. "We know each other too well to play games. Either tell me now -- "

"You'll kill me," Keetman countered. "You will kill me, anyway, Steshka. I'm certain of it."

"That's true," Steshka agreed. "But I want your information first."

Keetman had to admit that his enemy was right. The likelihood of him giving up the information was pretty good. They both knew how to interrogate prisoners. However, if he managed to put off the moment of reckoning for a while, then maybe someone, anyone, even Griffin if Caine told him about the visit, might be able to track him down. "I doubt it, Steshka," Keetman replied, licking dry lips. 

Steshka studied him. "Expecting a rescue, Colonel?"

Keetman flashed a wry smile. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"Go ahead," Steshka called behind him. "I want that information, Hsi."

Keetman recognized the man who stepped out from behind Steshka. "Hsi Xing-Hing. I thought the Chinese had executed you when you massacred that family."

Steshka laughed, the sound rocketing off the walls. "Anyone can be bought, Keetman. I got his freedom for a handful of diamonds."

"Diamonds can't buy everything," Keetman snapped. 

"They can buy freedom, Colonel. Not for you, but for me."

 

Caine's apartment appeared empty. The room held the freshness of the morning air before the day heated up, bringing the stench of pollution and overheated tempers. The sound of the street below was barely audible. Peter hesitated for a second then went inside, closing the door behind him. "Pop?"  
Caine stepped out of the far room, his forefinger pressed against his lips. "Shhh."

"Where is he?" 

Caine led the way into the back where he had set up an extra cot. 

Peter stopped momentarily. From his pallid face to the way he lay on the bed, Kermit looked like a stone effigy on a tomb. His tuxedo jacket lay in a heap on one side, along with his shoes, and he was covered with a embroidered spread of Chinese dragons and tigers over his open shirt. 

"How is he, Pop?" Peter whispered.

Caine smiled. "Better than he looks. He has a hard head."

"Peter?" Kermit asked sleepily. He turned his head towards Peter and opened his eyes. "What time... is it?"

"After ten," Peter said reassuringly, sitting down beside the bed. "How do you feel?"

"Better than I...look," Kermit replied with a slight grin. "Actually, I can probably get up." He started to try, but Caine held out his hand in protest.  
"This afternoon, maybe."

Kermit sank back with grimaced, "I haven't had a headache like this since my last birthday."

"Well, you'll need these," Peter replied, holding out the sunglasses. "The sun's bright out there."

Kermit paused for a second before taking the shades. "So, you went to the hotel?" Apprehension colored his voice.

"Yeah. I took care of it. Hell of a mess there," Peter said. "I found her passport and some other papers. Told one of the uniforms to send over a team."

"Papers," Kermit said flatly. His gaze met Peter's as a flicker of worry went across his face.

"A manila folder," Peter said in a faintly apologetic tone.

"Do you have the file?" Kermit asked, raising himself on one elbow.

"Captain Simms has it," admitted Peter reluctantly. "She took it off my desk as soon as I hit the office. "

Kermit winced and lay back, closing his eyes for a second. 

Peter understood. "You didn't want her -- "

"I don't want anyone to read it," Kermit said harshly. 

"I read it," Peter said quietly. "That Keetman has a clear concise style, doesn't he?"

Kermit smiled, his eyelids blinking as if they were under bright light. "Oh, yeah. He pulled our coals out of a hot, hot fire."

"Why'd this Carla Costca attack you, Kermit?"

"She was Alphonse's wife. He's dead, died of syphilis about a year ago. I thought he'd died years ago but modern drugs must have held it off. She was crazy, obsessed about the money we lost on that raid." 

Peter shook his head in disbelief. "She came all this way to see you -- "

"The Mercenaries' Ball is the one place she was likely to find us all," Kermit muttered. "She did."

"Let him rest," Caine said authoritatively from the doorway.

Peter got up. "Well, get some rest, Kermit, because the captain wants to see you as soon as possible and that means in an hour or two. Alexander Keetman's supposed to come to the precinct at noon to give his report about what happened last night."

"Alexander Keetman? He was there? She said he wasn't there, but what would she know. She wasn't Danielle," Kermit muttered in a puzzled tone. "Why was he there, Peter? Was it because of Carla?"

Peter shrugged. "I don't know, Kermit. We'll have to ask him."

 

When Strenlich strode into the squadroom around eleven, he found it populated by Blake, Skalany and Broderick, listening eagerly to Jody's story of the night before. She had just reached the mysterious shot that killed Holms. Mary Margaret smothered a yawn as she listened, then grinned at the chief who scowled in return. Captain Simms' door was shut and Peter's desk was empty. 

"Where's everyone?" he barked at Powell, who looked as if she were dragging.

"Hey, we had a late night, Chief!" she protested. "I didn't get to bed 'til after three. They're probably still asleep."

Strenlich glared at Broderick. "Anyone checked in yet?"

Broderick looked startled. "Like whom, Chief?"

"A guy named Keetman, Colonel Keetman," Strenlich grated out. "He said he'd be in this morning to make his report."

"No one named that," answered Broderick. "Why?"

Strenlich looked sour, then impatiently glanced back at the half-empty squadroom. "I'll be back by one if anyone's looking for me."

"Where're you headed, Chief?" Broderick called.

"The Sutton Place Hotel to see Mr. Keetman about a report!"

 

Simms came in at eleven-thirty and glanced around the office. Normal. Detectives and uniformed officers went about their work. Peter's desk was empty and Kermit's and Strenlich's offices were dark. 

"Where are they?" she asked Blake, who had crossed her path. 

Blake blinked. "Strenlich said he was out 'til one. I haven't seen Kermit or Peter."

Simms' lips thinned dangerously. "Thank you."

Blake escaped with relief to his desk as she turned and headed for her office.

"Sergeant Broderick," she called to him. The man turned. "If Mr. Keetman comes to call, please keep him here."

Broderick looked startled. "Keetman, Captain?"

"Yes, he was supposed to be here around noon," she said crisply. She eyed him curiously. "Why, Sergeant?"

"Chief Strenlich was also looking for him, Captain," Broderick replied reluctantly. "He's gone out to look for him."

"Look for him?" Simms' gaze strayed to the clock, which said noon. "He wasn't supposed to be here 'til now."

Broderick shrugged uncomfortably. "The chief didn't give his reasons, Captain."

Simms looked frustrated. "If Mr. Keetman arrives, treat him like a guest, Sergeant. And if the Chief comes back, I want to talk to him in my office!"  
Broderick's face showed relief as she stalked out. 

Inside her office with the door closed, she took out the file and flipped to the back page. Something about the signature had bothered her last night, and she took another look at it. "Captain Alexander Keetman." She flipped back to the front of the file. "Does this mean...what the hell was happening there in 1981? In fact, where is Namibia?" She pulled out an atlas and opened it to the African Continent. There was South Africa at the lower tip, and, to the upper right of it, Namibia. The name `South West Africa' was printed below it in parentheses. On the upper edge of Namibia was Angola and to the east was Botswana. 

"What was happening in South Africa and Namibia in 1981?" She reached for her World Almanac and settled down to read what little they contained about the political situation in those countries.

 

Strenlich picked up the house phone at the Sutton Park Hotel and waited until the operator connected him to Keetman's room. After ten rings, he hung up, frowning. 

He walked over to the front desk and was greeted by the familiar face of Alan Carstairs. He had been the hotel liaison who had helped them catch a thief the day when George had tried to rob the hotel as well as ruin Captain Blaisdell's daughter's wedding.

"What can I do for you, Chief?" Carstairs asked cheerfully.

"You've got a Colonel Keetman registered here?" Strenlich inquired.

"Yes, indeed," Carstairs acknowledged. "He's a good tipper. Why, is there a problem?"

Strenlich smiled thinly. "I need to speak with him, but his room doesn't answer. Has he picked up his messages?"

"I wouldn't know," Carstairs said shrewdly, eying the other man. "I can check if he's picked up another key or if anyone's seen him."

"I'd appreciate that," Strenlich said with an unconvincing smile. 

Settling on the end of the counter, he wondered why he was doing this. He could have had Powell or Blake or anyone else come to the hotel, and besides, Keetman could be in the precinct right now, talking with the captain.

But the interchange between the captain and Peter had piqued his curiosity. He wasn't sure what had made him go out to the hotel to make sure this Keetman showed up, but since he couldn't explain it, he dismissed it, and watched as Carstairs talked with the other desk clerks, then disappeared into the back room.

A glance at his watch said it was a few minutes after noon. The lunchtime crowds flooded the hotel lobby. 

Carstairs, frowning, came out of the back holding a piece of fax paper. "Apparently no one saw him come in last night, Chief," he said apologetically. "This fax arrived several hours ago. We weren't able to deliver it because he didn't answer his door."

The close-shaven hair on the back of Strenlich's neck prickled. "I think maybe it's time we interrupted him, don't you?"

Carstairs looked upset. "I'm not sure that would be a good idea. It's a matter of privacy -- "

"He could have had a heart attack," Strenlich cut him off ruthlessly. "he could need help, Carstairs."

The man hesitated, then gave in to superior persuasion. "I'll just get the key. We'll knock and see if there is an answer."

"That sounds good," Strenlich encouraged. He followed the slender man into the elevator and out at the twenty-second floor.

Carstairs knocked on the door. No reply. He knocked again, the fax in his hand rustling. Nothing.

"I think it's time," Strenlich stated in an undertone. "Open it."

The hotel man licked his lips nervously, then inserted the card in the electronic lock and the door clicked open.

"Mr. Keetman?" Carstairs called uncertainly before going inside, Strenlich on his heels. 

It was a huge room with a stunning view of the city out the windows, where the curtains were drawn. The sheets on the double bed hadn't been disturbed from their turned-down condition of the night before. Two mints still lay on the pillows. 

"Mr. Keetman?" Carstairs went over to the bathroom and looked inside as Strenlich let his gaze drift over the room.

A gleaming leather coat sat on the back of the chair beside the table beside the windows, with the hat beside it, as if Keetman had decided to leave them there to pick up later. He had changed his clothing before going to the Ball; discarded trousers, shirt and underwear lay in a heap on one of the armchairs. His shoes were lying on their sides as if they had been kicked off as he dressed.

On the table by the window was a pad of paper and a pamphlet from the biggest bank in the city. Strenlich looked at the pad. Empty sheets. 

Seeing Carstairs was still occupied in the bathroom, he flipped open the pamphlet. A deposit slip signed by a Mr. Daterman, Vice President, for an Alexander Keetman for a thousand dollars. Some starter checks sat below the slip along with bank papers for starting an account. His wife's name was also on the account. Danielle Keetman. Strenlich remembered that as the false name used by Carla Costca. So there was a real Danielle and the missing man was her husband. He heard footsteps and flipped back the paper.

Carstairs came back into the bedroom, frowning. "I don't understand, Chief. It appears that Mr. Keetman didn't come home last night."

Strenlich nodded sagely. "It does look like that."

"But where could he be?" Carstairs worried aloud. "I mean, this was his first trip to this city. I know because he requested a packet of information, travel brochures and banking and the like to be prepared for his arrival."

"Anything special that he asked for?" 

"Well,..he wanted a map, a very in-depth street map," Carstairs confessed. "He was very particular about that."

All the better to find his way to last night's party, Strenlich thought. "I'll see if we can locate him. He's probably with some old friends," he said aloud.  
Carstairs looked down at the papers in his hands. "I hope he returns before Wednesday, Chief."

"Why?" 

"His wife is coming in then with his daughters. This is the confirmation from his office."

Strenlich automatically held out his hand, and the hotel man surrendered the papers. 

"I would keep this in a safe place," Strenlich commented after he read it. He handed it back. "I'll see if I can locate Mr. Keetman."

Carstairs nodded, eager to leave Keetman's absence in the chief's hands.

As he left, Strenlich realized that he was becoming worried about Keetman rather than just irritated. Looking back, he admitted reluctantly that he had overreacted to the other's tone. Coupled with the death of the woman using Keetman's wife's name, and Kermit, the problem was becoming the kind of puzzle that Strenlich remembered from the days of Paul Blaisdell. The kind of problem Strenlich hated.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two of the story is set in 1995

Kermit waited till he heard Caine leave the apartment, then pushed back the coverlet. His head spun. He waited till the room stopped looking fuzzy around the edges, then hoisted himself off the cot. 

He realized the room looked organic because of the number of plants and hanging bundles of herbs that cast shadows across the large rooms. The smell was a pungent mixture that tickled his nose. Mentally, he prayed that he wouldn't sneeze; his head might fall off. He reached automatically into his pocket for his green sunglasses, snapped them open, and put them on. 

He saw his jacket lying to one side, still bloody from the fight with Holms. Sliding it on over his open shirt, he found a rip in the lining that must have happened the night before. Great. Well, he would have to grit his teeth and go shopping for new clothing. He grimaced, looked around cautiously for Caine, then walked, a little unsteadily, out the front door. 

It was hotter on the street than in the apartment as the sun reflected off the cracked concrete and heat soaked through his thin shoes. He felt in his pants pocket and found his wallet still intact. Checking it, he realized he had enough money to get home and that was about it; he would have to go to a bank before he went into the office. Looking at his watch, twelve thirty. Mentally he cringed at the thought of going into the office, but it would be better if he didn't put it off. He needed to cope with Captain Simms and the file, and how Jody was going to react when he walked in. He'd also have to have get straight exactly what had happened the night before with Carla and why Peter had magically appeared at the Mercenaries' Ball. 

His apartment was cool and dark, the air-conditioner laboring in one corner. He set the computer to checking for electronic mail before stripping off his clothes and heading for the shower. 

The hot water stung the bruises on his back where Holms had landed blows, and on his legs, where he had hit desks and walls when he staggered into the office the night before. Checking his arm, he saw a small circular bruise where Carla had injected him with the sodium pentothal.  
He turned around to let the water trickle through his dark hair as he planned the rest of the day. 

What was he going to do about Jody? He remembered her actions the night before, and her comment about not asking while he was down and out; it made him squirm mentally that his coworkers knew and cared about him that much. He admitted that he'd go over the top for most of them, but he just didn't want anyone capitalizing on it. 

She probably wouldn't, he concluded, gently soaping his torso. She'd just let him know that she remembered, and the office life would go on as it always had been. It wasn't as if Peter and Caine hadn't made the same sentiments clear over the years, that he could count on them through hell and back. He turned off the shower, and stepped out, pulling the towel from the rack and drying himself.

Kermit looked at himself in the mirror. He saw a man in his forties, with dark eyes that revealed too much to an enemy. A blaze of grey in his black hair hadn't been there when he first met the Keetmans. The face of a man whose secrets were leaking out at an alarming rate. He brushed back his hair and winced when he hit where Danielle had knocked him out with the ice bucket. 

There was a bruise forming on his jaw where Holms had landed a blow, as well as a scrape on his hands where he'd landed on the concrete. Red ridges ran around his wrists from being tied up. He poured peroxide over them and winced at the sting, then took out gauze. With some difficulty, he wrapped it around his wrists and tucked in the loose ends of cloth. It still looked like he had tried committing suicide, but the bandages would elicit less comment than the raw flesh.

After dressing, he ate several pieces of toast while looking over his electronic mail. There was nothing much of interest except the promise of a new virus guaranteed to crack NSA files for his perusal if he was interested. Finally, he headed for the office, realizing that his green Corvair was still at the warehouse where Jody had driven it. He'd have to see to having it retrieved, or go out there himself in a taxi.

A half-hour later, Kermit stalked into the squadroom, his shoulders stiff, anticipating trouble. 

Everyone paused, their attention on him for a second, then, put off by his forbidding expression, turned back to their work.  
Peter caught sight of Kermit's expression and put his head down over his files.

Kermit went into his office and stopped dead, staring at his desk.

A box of microwave popcorn sat on top of his monitor, festooned with gay ribbons.

He struggled to hide a grin, but it escaped. He lifted the box off, turning it over in his hands.

"Coffee?" Jody asked unexpectedly from the doorway.

He turned. She held out a paper cup of steaming liquid, her other hand holding another cup.

"I'd like that." Kermit put on his shades and took the coffee. He smiled unexpectedly. "Want to do a movie sometime?"

"Sure. Oh, by the way -- I drove your car back here last night. It's in the lot."

"Thanks." There was a wealth of appreciation in his reply, and she acknowledged it with a small smile. What had happened before the Mercenaries' Ball could be discussed later, he realized. She wasn't going to push the issue.

"Psst!" Blake suddenly called. "The Captain wants to see you, Kermit, and you'd better watch out."

Kermit raised an eyebrow, then came to the door and looked out. "Blake is right."

Simms stopped by the muster desk. "Is Colonel Keetman here?"

The Sergeant shook his head. "No, Captain. He hasn't come in yet."

They both looked at the clock. One-thirty in the afternoon. "He said he'd be in at noon, am I correct?" Simms asked.

"Yes, ma'am," Broderick agreed. "That's what the chief said."

She let her eyes scan the room seeing Peter at his desk, his head up watching her, and Jody at Kermit's door, obviously talking with him. "When he arrives, interrupt me. Until then, I'm busy." She walked over to where Kermit and Jody were. "I want to see you in my office right now, Kermit."

"Captain -- " Kermit started, then stopped, pinned by her glance to the door.

"Now. You too, Peter."

"Principal's office," Jody whispered as Kermit brushed past her, and he grinned slightly before straightening his face.

Simms nodded at the door and Peter shut it behind them. Her long fingers tapped on the manila folder. "Very interesting reading, Detective Griffin."  
Kermit folded his arms. "It was a long time ago, Captain."

"It still is today," she replied enigmatically as she studied him. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," he said uncompromisingly.

Peter eyed them both and decided to stay out of the way. Kermit was on the defensive and that meant anything could happen, and probably would. 

"The drugs have worn off?" she probed.

"Drugs, Captain?" he hedged.

"Detective Powell told me about last night." Kermit flushed. "I want a full report on that woman and why she was shooting people."

"She thought I knew who sold us out years ago," Kermit said with a shrug. "It turned out to be Antony Holms."

"Who is now dead," Peter cut in. 

Kermit asked, "Dead? Did I hit him that hard?" 

Simms ignored his comment. "A sniper shot him while in custody."

"A sniper?" Kermit asked in disbelief. 

"I believe that Blake also mentioned that he was probably the man connected with those Tec-9s," she asked, looking at Peter and ignoring Kermit.

He shrugged. "We don't have any proof of that, Captain. A stolen van and a Mexican connection doesn't lead to the gun-running."

"Did they catch the sniper?" Kermit demanded.

She surveyed him coolly. "No. They're still looking. Any idea of why someone would want to kill him?"

Kermit shrugged. "Not a clue. Mercenaries live with betrayal, Captain. Probably some dissatisfied customer decided to get revenge."

She flipped open the manila folder to the last page, and folded it open so the signature was face up. "Did you know that Alexander Keetman was at the Mercenaries' Ball last night?"

Kermit's jaw dropped for a fraction of a second, then shut. "The Captain was there?"

"He's a Colonel now," she stated flatly, watching him closely. "Any ideas of why he was here, Kermit?"

"I have no idea, Captain," Kermit said sincerely. "I haven't spoken with Keetman in fifteen or more years."

"I know why he was here." A knock on the door interrupted her. She smiled in anticipation. "That should be him now."

Peter opened the door to come face-to-face with a frowning Strenlich.

Simms' smile vanished. "Chief?"

"Captain, I went over to the Sutton Place Hotel to talk with Mr. Keetman," Strenlich said firmly. "He didn't come back last night."

"What?" shot out accusingly from three voices and Strenlich jumped. Kermit exchanged glances at Peter, then glanced at Simms, who had stood up. 

"Where did he go? What did you find out?" she spat out decisively, surprising the men in front of her.

Strenlich stared at the three of them in surprise. "Nothing much. Apparently, he didn't come back to the hotel last night after that party of yours, Kermit."

"It wasn't my party," Kermit said flatly.

"Did you find anything in his room?" Peter asked in a serious tone. "Nothing but a receipt for the First National Bank. He apparently opened an account there and moved a thousand dollars into it." Strenlich confessed.

She sat down with a thump, leaning back in her chair. "So, he was planning to stay in this country?"

"With a thousand dollars? Not likely. The US is too expensive for that," Kermit cracked.

Simms impaled him with her steely gaze, then looked at all three men balefully. "I want Keetman in this office by six, gentlemen. Now, get out there and  
find him. Kermit, we'll talk about this file later."

Kermit sketched a salute and walked out, drawing Peter with him.

Behind them, Simms slammed shut the folder and put it in the safe. 

 

Strenlich called the hotel and reached Carstairs. "Mr. Carstairs, we're formally looking into the disappearance of Mr. Keetman. Can you possibly do me a favor?"

The hotel man replied, "yes," in a dubious tone.

"I'll be sending a detective to look through the place and take notes. Could you make sure that nothing is disturbed? No cleaning lady, nothing."

"Certainly, Chief. I'll alert the front desk to give him any help he needs."

The chief caught the eye of Skalany who was picking up her jacket on her way out, and waved her down. "Her name is Mary Margaret Skalany," he said cheerfully to Carstairs, "and she'll be there in a half-hour."

Skalany opened her mouth, then shut it when the chief glared at her. 

"Fine! I'll tell the desk she's coming." Carstairs hung up.

"Don't give me that look," Strenlich said acidly as she crossed her arms and frowned. "Get over to the Sutton Place and see if you find anything more in Keetman's hotel room that might give us a hint as to where he was going."

"Chief?" Peter interrupted before Skalany could speak up. "Is this the address Rykker gave you?"

"That's where he said he'd be," Strenlich grated out. "Why? Who is this bozo?"

"One of the most dangerous people I've ever met," Peter said soberly. "Seen Kermit around?"

"Not since the Captain had her meeting," Broderick put in. "His door's closed."

"I knocked. No answer," Peter commented. "Tell you what, if he turns up, tell him to go to Rykker's address, will you? I'll meet him there."

"Sure, Pete," Broderick agreed.

Skalany finally cut in. "Who do I see, Chief?"

"Man named Carstairs. Better get a move on before the Captain comes out," Strenlich advised. 

She rolled her eyes. "Peter, just one thing -- do you have a picture of this Keetman? Think we can get one?" she said hopefully. "I'd like to know what he looks like!"

"I'll get one for the office," Strenlich replied. "Good thought."

"See you later," Peter said absently. He bustled down the stairs leaving everyone with surprised expressions.

"What's eating him?" Skalany finally asked. 

"Dunno," Strenlich answered, with a puzzled frown. 

 

"Is he still breathing, Hsi?" Steshka asked. He sat back in the folding chair and eyed his prisoner. Dust stirred by his entrance slowly settled to the neglected floor. 

"He's still alive. We have to give him some time to recover," Hsi said authoritatively, putting the poker back in the charcoal brazier. The coals burned a sullen red that matched the emergency light above the bound man. "He is weakening." 

"What has he given you?" 

"Nothing," the young man replied. "He hasn't said a word, Mr. Steshka, about the diamonds and his arrangements."

"Have you tried drugs?"

"If you wish me to use drugs instead of the burning him, then you must give me the drugs, sir," Hsi said with exquisite politeness.

Steshka angrily stared at the prisoner. At this rate, Keetman would probably die before they got the information. Damn him, he always was too stubborn! It was worth a try to use the drugs.

"I want you to go to a motel room where there is some sodium pentothal that won't be missed," Steshka said, standing up and fastidiously dusting off his suit. "I gave it to Holms who gave it to his girlfriend. After you get it, go to Keetman's hotel room and check if there is anything there we can use. I believe he had a room key in his pants pocket."

Hsi nodded and moved the brazier under one of the cracked windows, so that the smoke could leak out through the broken glass. "Is it safe to leave him here alone, sir?"

"He's not going anywhere," Steshka smirked as he nudged the tortured man's foot, eliciting no response, "I'll keep him company for a few minutes longer."

"Yes, sir." Hsi bowed and left them.

 

Peter knocked on the door of the apartment where Rykker was staying, according to his statement last night. He wasn't surprised that when Rykker opened the door, he held a gun. 

"Peter." The mercenary stepped back. "What brings you here?"

"Last night," Peter stated, "you mentioned undercurrents out there that I didn't understand. Do any of them involve Keetman?"

"Keetman!" Rykker frowned as he closed the door. The hotel room was reasonably spacious but the curtains were shut. "What about Keetman?"

Peter hesitated. "Yes, what about him? Answer me, Rykker. It's important."

Rykker eyed him suspiciously. "As far as I know, Keetman isn't involved in any of those currents I was talking about, Peter. I still don't know why he's here in town. Did you ever find out why the woman was impersonating Danielle?"

Peter stared at him blankly realizing the mercenary wasn't up-to-date on what happened. "Oh, yeah, it was about some mercenary mission gone bad years ago. That's what Kermit said. Tell me about Holms." 

"Small-time. He was running guns to some Mexican rebels the last time I heard," Rykker said dismissively. "Worked for a guy in Zimbabwe for years, before he got run out of town there and came to the United States." He paused for a second, then nodded sagely. "There's a Keetman connection, Peter.  
Surprised I didn't see it before."

"What?"

"The guy Holms worked for was Steshka. Remember I told you about the Keetman and Steshka feud? Steshka hired me to kill Keetman."

Peter stared at him blankly. "Rykker, I have hard time believing you were a contract killer."

"I was hungry."

"What happened after you failed that?"

"He demanded his money back, but I told him was already spent; which it was -- I gave it to Danielle to pay her off," Rykker admitted. "Steshka had to accept that or tell his superiors in Russia that he was hiring people to do what he was supposed to do himself."

"Russia?" Peter felt like he was floundering at sea.

"He was a captain in the Russian military assigned to helping out the Angolan rebels. The Russians were keeping a real low profile at that time in Angola. I don't know how Steshka explained the money but he never bothered me again." Rykker sat down on the edge of the bed. "His second-in-command's name is Hsi Xing-Hing. He's part Mongolian, part Russian. That one's as bad as they get, Peter."

Peter shook his head to clear it. "So, Steshka was at the Ball along with his bodyguard -- "

"What's happened to Keetman?" Rykker said authoritatively, his gaze pinning the detective to the wall. "Tell me what's going on, Peter. I might be able to help you."

"I..."

"He's vanished, hasn't he?" Rykker concluded. "Just nod. That's not breaking silence."

Peter debated for a fraction of a second, then nodded. 

Rykker clicked his tone in disgust. "I saw him last night, Peter, at the Ball, just after Kermit's battle. He came over and talked to me."

"What?" Peter was suddenly interested. "What did he say?"

"Not much. Said he'd be in town for a while." Rykker glanced at him. "I pointed you out to him, Peter, as Blaisdell's foster son."

"What?"

"And that new captain of yours -- "

"Simms."

"Right. He was interested in her," Rykker said. "So, then he vanished."

"No one has seen him -- "

"Did you ask your father?" Rykker interrupted.

"Why?" Peter returned baldly.

"The last I saw of him, Keetman was walking after Caine and Griffin," the other man said bluntly. "Try your father, Peter."

"Pop? Right." Peter realized that Kermit hadn't said anything that day about when he left Caine's apartment. Since he hadn't mentioned it, probably he had left when Caine was out. Which meant Caine would come looking for him or for Kermit at the soonest possible moment.

"And, in the meantime," Rykker said with a vicious smile, "I'll try and get in touch with Steshka or Hsi."

"About what?" Peter asked warily. He wasn't sure he wanted Rykker's help. His expression was unpleasant.

"About the same things I talked to you about," Rykker replied. "The currents and maybe, about Keetman."

"Why are you getting involved, Rykker?" 

Rykker hesitated, then shrugged. "I guess I'm still paying off Danielle for not killing me," he said with fake callousness. "Besides, the devil you know versus the devil you don't. I prefer dealing with Keetman than with anyone they might put in his place."

"So he's still part of the military?" Petter questioned.

"Sure. Intelligence," the mercenary said, adding, "even if his official job is patrolling the border between Mozambique and South Africa. He's okay, Peter. A bit like Blaisdell, in fact."

"Call me if you hear anything," Peter asked urgently. "He's the top priority for the 101st right now."

"Why are you so interested in him?" Rykker inquired. 

"We don't like losing tourists," Peter said with a grin. "You've got the office number -- "

Rykker cut him off with a wave of his hand. "I'll find you. You'd better go see if you can talk to Caine."

Peter nodded. "Thanks, Rykker."

"You're welcome."

 

Kermit climbed the stairs to the motel room where Carla had held him captive. His face was particularly unreadable but there was an uncompromising expression on his lips. 

He had taken the key to Danielle's room from her bag in the evidence room and opened the door. The door to the room was unmarked by police tape. Hadn't Peter sent over a team? He remembered him saying that clearly. Well, whatever had happened, there was no sign of the police having gone over the room. Damn!

Peter had given him a rundown but Kermit knew that there was more to read in the rumpled sheets and half-filled closet that he would be able to discover than Peter could. He let his gaze drift over the bed and furnishings.

The sheets hadn't been disturbed. He winced, seeing the wires and the dismantled headboard. He stepped to the other side of the bed and saw the pillow that Holms had put over his face to smother him. That had been a close call.

He opened the closet and found another business suit along with a couple of pairs of nice slacks, belts and shirts all neatly hanging in a row. Matching shoes sat above.

"You had nice taste, Carla," Kermit murmured. "Where'd you get the money to do this?"

He picked up her suitcase and brought it out to the bed. Unfastening the snaps, he flipped open the top. Inside was a plane ticket with accompanying credit card receipt.

"Hmm..." he picked out the document. The name on the slip was Carla Costca. The invitation to the Mercenaries' Ball was also there, addressed to Alphonse Costca at a hospital in Portugal. Kermit thought he'd call Portugal and ask them if the man had really died. 

He closed the suitcase and returned it to the closet. 

Going into the bathroom, he found a cobalt blue robe hanging from the hook. Herbal shampoo, and a perfume bottle sat on the console along with a hairbrush and various pairs of earrings. Several lipsticks rounded out the collection.

He frowned. Something was wrong. Something was missing. He abruptly swung around and went back into the main room.

Beside the bed, the table held an ash tray and a clock ticking away the afternoon. There was a glass half-filled with water. 

"The hypodermic..." Kermit bent down and searched the garbage can.

He came up with the wrapper for a syringe discarded in the trash. Smoothing it between his long fingers, he looked around. 

No hypodermic. In fact, no drugs at all. He shifted through the bedclothes, but there was no bottle.

Getting down on his knees he looked under the bed. Nothing.

Searching the room thoroughly, he concluded that someone had been in there, and taken the sodium pentothal and syringe. Why?

"I think it's time to check Holms' apartment," he said grimly, shattering the quiet. He closed the door behind him, hanging out the Do Not Disturb sign and went down to the front desk.

The greasy-haired woman behind the counter yawned and turned a page of her newspaper. She only looked up when Kermit laid his hand over the page of comics. "Can I help you?" she said with disinterest.

"Was anyone else here today?" Kermit said tensely, leaning forward.

"Here? Mister, we get people in and out of here all the time." She shrugged.

"Not to check in, to visit," he grated out.

She stared at her reflection in his green shades. "Huh. Well, I saw some Chinese guy go by this morning, but I thought he was part of some family group that was in town. He seemed... you know,"

"No, I don't `know'. Explain it to me," he said in a more moderate tone.

"Well, he was wearing a suit. I mean, this is a vacation motel," she said with shredded dignity. "People wear playsuits and jeans. He was all dressed up."  
"What time was this?"

"About...oh, I'd say two-thirty or two-forty-five," she replied. "About a half-hour before you came in."

He checked his watch. "It's almost three now."

"Yeah..."

Kermit stepped back. "I'm going to send a squad of police officers over to work on Costca's room."

"Yeah? And who's gonna be paying her bill?" the woman sneered. "We can't have that room all locked up empty. It's almost the end of the summer tourist season and we need it."

"Dun her estate," Kermit said with sudden loathing for the greedy woman. "Until then, keep it locked. I'll send over the men as soon as I can."  
She yawned. "Her reservation was only through noon today -- I gotta customer for it."

"Lady, make sure it stays just the way it is right now," he said grimly, "until the police clear it with you. Understand?"

She stared at him defiantly. "Yeah, I understand. You the cop they found all tied up?"

He looked down and saw the bandages on his wrist. Straightening up, he made sure his sleeve covered the gauze. "Let me use the phone."

"Cost you a quarter," she demanded.

He flipped her the coin and picked up the receiver. Dialing in the number, he reached Broderick. "Hi, this is Griffin."

"Hi," the desk sergeant said laconically.

"Didn't Caine tell you to send a team to Costca's motel?" Kermit asked in a steely tone. 

"What team?" Broderick asked mystified. 

"He told me that he had."

There was the rustling of papers, then Broderick said something under his breath. "It got buried, Kermit."

"Well, I need one over here now," Kermit ordered. "Dust the room, the whole business." 

"Anything in particular we should look for?" Broderick asked.

"The nightstand. Something's missing," Kermit replied enigmatically. "I'll be back soon. Bye." He hung up and pushed the phone back. "They'll be here soon."

"Yeah, sure. Cops." She laughed contemptuously as he walked out.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two of the story is set in 1995

Skalany hadn't been particularly pleased with the chief's assignment and when she finally reached the Sutton Place Hotel, she wasn't pleased to find that she had to pay for her parking. She'd make sure this Carstairs validated her ticket before she left. Walking up to the front desk, she saw it was busy with new clients. She leaned over one edge until someone glanced her way, then raised her badge.

  
He blinked, then disappeared into the doorway behind him.

Seconds later, a man came out. "Detective Skalany?" he asked in a polite, restrained tone.

She smiled at him. "Mr. Carstairs?"

"As you see, we're very busy. Would it be a great imposition if you checked Colonel Keetman's hotel room yourself?" he requested politely, his attention partly distracted by the customers.

"That would be fine," she replied, holding out her hand. "I'll make a list if I take anything."

"Excellent," he said ebulliently. He held out the small plastic key to room two twenty-six.

She left him placating an enormously fat woman drenched in expensive perfume protesting her room location.

A man intercepted her before she reached the elevator. "Detective?" he asked politely.

She took note of the shiny shoes and neatly-pressed suit, but her attention was caught by the man's dark, intelligent eyes, and thin nose. His dark hair was smoothed back behind his ears. He looked like any businessman until you looked at his eyes, which watched her suspiciously. "You are?"

"Christiaan Welch of the South African Consulate," he said suavely, holding out his hand. She shook it after a second of hesitation.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Welch, I hadn't expected to find anyone from the Consulate here," she said with a trace of embarrassment.

"I heard you ask about Colonel Keetman," he acknowledged, not moving out of her way. "Are you looking for him?"

Skalany stared at him coolly, her interest rising. "Yes. What is your interest, Mr. Welch?"

"The Colonel was supposed to call the consulate at noon. He didn't and hasn't acknowledged our calls," Welch said in a polite but firm tone. "We are worried that something might have happened to him."

"Well, I recommend that you check with Captain Simms of the 101st," Skalany replied, bailing out of the responsibility of dealing with foreign countries. "I can't help you there."

"May I come up with you?" he pressed.

She stepped around him. "No, Mr. Welch, you cannot. This is a possible police investigation. Call Captain Simms if you want more information."  
"I will do that, Detective..."

"Skalany," she threw back as she headed for the elevators. In the polished brass of the doors, she saw he was still watching her, then he turned and walked towards the doors. She let out a sigh of relief, then  
realized how tense she'd gotten during the confrontation. What was it about Welch that was so unnerving? She took the elevator up to the twenty-second floor and walked down the plush carpet, till she came to the door.

Putting the key in, she noticed that it stuck for a second, before the light bulb went green and the door clicked open. Hmm.

The size of the room impressed her. The connecting door to the neighboring suite was half-ajar and she looked through it curiously, to see an equally large room. It was empty, with the lights off and the bed untouched.

Turning around, she returned to the main suite. A leather coat was hanging off the chair and the discarded clothing caught her eye. She checked all the pockets in the trousers, but there was nothing there.

She had just opened the door to the closet when she heard a sound coming from the bathroom.

"Mr. Keetman?" she called, stepping back.

Nothing. Skalany frowned, her hand going to the gun in its waist holster. "Mr. Keetman?"

She took a tentative step towards the bathroom, and with one foot kicked open the door. Nothing. She saw herself in the mirror, gun held ready, and the room behind her becoming dark as the last rays of the sun sank behind the buildings.

She stepped over the jamb and looked towards the shower.

The door's quick movement didn't take her completely by surprise. It was logical that the only place the noise could have come from was behind it.

Still, the power that sent the door against her took her startled her, and she fired her gun, the bullet shattering the mirror.

A hand dragged her around the door, and hit her in the face.

Skalany compensated by hitting out with her gun, but her movement didn't help. She stumbled back against the cabinet and the glass.

Another blow landed on her shoulder and she dropped the gun, which clattered as it landed in the toilet.

The Asian man was about Kermit's age. She ducked the next blow and dived through the open door into the bedroom where there was more room to fight.

  
He followed almost before she could get up from the carpet where she fell, and kicked out in a familiar karate move that she'd seen in her classes.

She reacted by dodging the blow and reaching out for the closest weapon, Keetman's clothing. She threw it into his face as he attacked. He ducked.

She rolled to his other side and kicked out once, landing a blow on his upper thigh that made him grunt in pain.

He turned, and before she could move, snapped his leg up in a kick-boxing move that connected with her jaw.

Her head cracked against the padded headboard and she collapsed, unconscious.

 

  
"Pop?" Peter entered the apartment and heard the reassuring sound of Caine's flute.

The music stopped as he walked into the back. "Peter," his father greeted him warmly.

"Pop, did Kermit talk to you before he left?"

His father frowned. "I went out....for some herbs and he...was gone when I returned. He was not really strong enough...to leave."

"Well, he showed up at the precinct so he's recovered," Peter said.

"I had...something for him," Caine said, holding out a piece of paper.

Peter took it and gasped. "Colonel Keetman's business card?"

"You know him?"

"Pop, we're all out looking for him right now!" Peter exclaimed. "Did you see him?"

Caine nodded, his eyes watching Peter's face closely. "He came here last night after Kermit, but... I stopped him. Why...are you looking for him?"

Peter ran his hand through his hair. "He's been kidnapped, Pop."

"Are....you sure?" Caine asked intently.

"Hell, we aren't sure of anything," Peter said in disgust. "His trail ended right after the Ball, then Rykker said he saw him following you. Now, I have this," he waved the card, "but you say he left here -- "

"Last night," Caine said. "He was here only a moment."

"Well, did you hear anything, Pop, or see anything?" Peter questioned.

Caine thought back. "I heard a car outside, but there are many cars outside. I was attending...Kermit."

"The center of the hurricane," Peter concluded. "So, after Keetman leaves here, he vanishes."

"Have you asked the people... on the street?" Caine questioned intently.

"Jody and Blake are doing that," Peter replied. "I'll tell them to start here." He looked around, then remembered Caine didn't have a telephone. "I'll call them from the car."

Caine stopped him with a touch on his arm. "This man, Keetman, is... in great danger? From whom?"

"We don't know," said Peter soberly. "We don't know anything."

"I will... keep my ears open," Caine said. "After all, I feel somewhat ...responsible."

"For what?" Peter demanded.

"If I had not stopped him from talking to Kermit, he would not... be gone," Caine answered remorsefully. "I should have -- "

Peter shook his head, cutting off his father's words. "Hindsight is twenty-twenty, Pop. We're all playing catch-up."

"I will ask around," Caine said with a nod of reluctant agreement.

"And, I'd better call Blake and Jody. They should be around here shortly."

"What about...yourself?"

"I'm going to report back to Captain Simms about what you and Rykker told me. It's possible that we have a trace on the possible kidnapper," Peter said. "Keetman had an enemy in town called Steshka."

Caine drew a deep breath.

"What?" Peter demanded.

"That name...I heard someone say that name," Caine said. He closed his eyes briefly and thought back. "Last night when I was with Kermit. It came...from outside."

"Maybe the kidnapper," Peter said eagerly. "Pop, if you remember anything more, bring it to me at the precinct. Anything."

"I will...try," Caine promised.

"See you later."

  
Broderick was beginning to think the floodgates had opened on crime and the flood was heading for the 101st Precinct. He'd spent an hour dealing with a group of gang members intent on freeing a friend of theirs, then another hour with several senior citizens reporting a purse snatching. Now, some guy in a well-tailored suit, who looked like a lawyer for a rich pimp, stood by the desk politely watching the crowd until his turn was called.

Behind him, Broderick heard Strenlich's voice laying down the law on something and knew the chief was feeling the stress as well. Jody was getting hell for some piece of paperwork not completed on the mercenaries.

"Can I help you?" Broderick attempted to be polite as he looked at the `lawyer.' He noticed the man's left hand had been mutilated in some explosion from the scars and shortened fingers.

The man smiled, showing perfect teeth set against his light tan. "I'm looking for the captain."

"Captain Simms?" the sergeant said startled. "Who are you?"

The man fished out his identification from an inside pocket and handed it over. "I'm from the South African Consulate and my name is Welch. I would like to speak with Captain Simms?"

"The Captain's...uh," Broderick looked over his shoulder at the closed door to Simms' office. "Busy."

The man's expression grew a little colder but he didn't move. "Then I would like to speak to whoever is in charge when he's not there?"

"He?" Strenlich said unexpectedly. He loomed behind Broderick. "Who's this?"

Broderick passed him the identification. Strenlich read it with an expression of a sour prune, then handed it back to Welch who returned it to his pocket. The chief noticed the mutilated hand but didn't comment. "I'm Chief of Detectives Strenlich, Mr. Welch. You can speak with me."  
Welch eyed him frostily. "I was told to speak directly with Captain Simms, Chief Strenlich. I'm afraid I must insist on seeing him."

Broderick cautiously moved out from between them.

Strenlich stared at Welch like he was something he'd found on the bottom of his shoe. "I'll see if she's in to see you." Strenlich turned on his heel and walked away.

"Her?" Welch said in puzzlement, glancing at Broderick.

The sergeant stared at him with reserve. "Captain Simms is a woman."

"A woman?" Welch thought about it, then gave the tiniest of shrugs. "Ah, America."

"That's right," Broderick said, turning to the next man in line. "That's what happens in America."

Strenlich knocked on Simms' door, and after a second, turned the knob and went inside. A minute later, Simms came out, followed by Strenlich, who looked even unhappier than before.

"Mr. Welch," she said holding out her hand to him.

He shook it, firmly. "Captain Simms? I'm glad to meet you."

"What brings you to the 101st, Mr. Welch?" she asked quizzically.

He looked around the busy muster desk. "May I speak with you in your office, Captain?"

"Fine. Chief Strenlich will be along," she said crisply.

Welch and Strenlich eyed each other suspiciously, but followed her across the room to her office. Peter watched the calvacade with interest till he caught Strenlich's glare and went back to his files.

Strenlich closed the door behind them and took up a stance next to the file cabinets.

Welch settled into his chair casually, his hands folded on his bent knee. "Captain Simms, I went to the Sutton Place Hotel to talk with a member of our armed forces who is in town, and found a detective on the way to search his room. Detective Skalany said that I was to apply to you for information.

Exactly what is going on, Captain Simms?"

Simms gave the tiniest of sighs. "We aren't really sure, Mr. Welch. May I see your identification?"

He raised an eyebrow but handed it to her.

"You're an attache at the Consulate?" she asked politely.

"I work for Treasury," he replied blandly.

"Ah. What then is Colonel Keetman to you?" she questioned, returning the identification.

Welch's face flushed. "The Colonel is in town on official business before he's taking a vacation. He did not make his usual morning call to us, so we are worried about him."

"His usual morning call?"

"I'm sure you understand that for security reasons he calls in every morning," Welch said with a shrug. "So, what is the 101st police precinct's interest in Colonel Keetman?"

Simms shuffled her papers for a second. "Last night there was a disturbance at a private party. The Colonel was there and promised to come in this morning to make a statement. When he did not, we automatically followed up on him at the hotel and found that he had not come back at all. So, we are attempting to discover -- "

"He's been missing since last night?" Welch said with a gasp. His gaze pinned her to the chair.

"We have no idea of when he became missing or even if he officially is," she said firmly, staring back at him. "A man can make alternative arrangements for the night or go out of town to see friends, and not go back to his hotel. We really don't have any idea of the situation, Mr. Welch!"

"Since last night," the South African mused, his gaze focused on the plants behind her. "That's a long time, Captain Simms, for Colonel Keetman to be missing."

Strenlich realized that Welch had no doubt that Keetman was kidnapped. He wondered how much further off the ball the police had been.

"After a certain amount of time, a man can be considered missing," Simms said. "Unless you formally ask us to look for him before then."

Welch stared coldly at her. "Yes, Captain, I believe I can say that the Consulate is formally asking you to search for the Colonel."

"One question," Strenlich put in before she could reply.

"Yes?" Welch shifted to look at him.

"Why was this Colonel at the Mercenaries' Ball last night?" Strenlich probed. "It's not the normal place for tourists in this city."

The man coldly stared at Strenlich. "The Colonel had many acquaintances who were mercenaries in southern Africa," Welch finally replied. "I would assume that he was exploring new ventures and meeting new people."

"New ventures?" Simms pounced.

Another few seconds of hesitation before Welch shrugged. "I can only believe so, Captain Simms. That is not my field of expertise."

"You have a phone number?" she said sweetly. "We will be in touch as soon as we hear something."

Welch gathered up his coat and stood. "I take it that you will be keeping me informed as to your progress?"

"I will keep the Consulate informed. One more question, Mr. Welch," she said looking up at him. "Is Colonel Keetman the type of man to just vanish this way?"

Welch shook his head. "No, Captain Simms, he is not. That's why I am worried."

She stood as well, "I'll be in touch with the Consulate. Who will be in charge on your end?"

"I will," Welch said flatly, finally showing the steel under his urbanity. He produced a business card and laid it on her desk. "You may direct your questions to me. Thank you for your time, Captain. I will be in touch if I find anything out."

"Chief Strenlich, would you please escort Mr. Welch to his car?" Simms asked, making it an order by her tone of voice.

Strenlich stared at her, then shifted his glare to Welch.

"That won't be necessary," Welch said briskly. "I can find my way out of the building. Good afternoon, Captain Simms, Chief."

"Right," said Strenlich as the man walked out. He followed till he saw Welch walk down the stairs towards the main exit, then went back to the captain's office.

She was staring dreamily at the same plant Welch had eyed, but her gaze shifted to Strenlich, who closed the door. "So, what do you think now, Chief?"

"An interesting man," Strenlich commented.

"Who? Welch or Keetman?"

"Both."

"Very true," she acknowledged. "Did you get the impression, Chief, that Mr. Welch is very worried about more than Keetman's disappearance?"

"Definitely, Captain," Strenlich agreed. "Keetman got on my nerves just last night when I met him, but this guy..."

"Why, Chief?" Simms asked leaning back in her chair. "Why did Keetman get on your nerves?"

Strenlich shifted from one foot to the other. "I'm not sure, Captain. It was his attitude, mostly. He was very calm, very self-assured, almost arrogant. He seemed to be almost laughing at us."

"Was he really or were you reacting to his country's history?" Simms asked directly. "For years we've heard about South Africa and apartheid. It's been in the press, on the television -- "

"That could have been part of it," Strenlich admitted reluctantly.

"Well, no matter how we feel about Keetman's past, the fact is that he's now officially missing. So, we'd better get off our duffs on this one," she concluded briskly.

"I'll see if I can find any information out about Mr. Welch," Strenlich promised grimly. "He's even more irritating than Colonel Keetman."

  
It was almost five-thirty and the shadows were starting to lengthen. Hot, humid air had made his shirt stick to his body, and he was very glad to get indoors where the air-conditioning was smoothly purring in the vents.

Christiaan Welch spared one glance for the clock on his desk. He flung his jacket on the coat rack and settled into his chair with a sigh of relief.

The traffic back to the office had been unbearable, but Welch had finally reached the cordoned-off area where the Mercenaries' Ball had been held, to find only uncommunicative policemen who rudely suggested he talk with Simms at the 101st if he wanted information.

His consular status seemed to be getting him nowhere in the search for the Colonel. He needed the assistance from police. He wondered if that beautiful dark-haired detective...what was the name? Skalany? That was it. He would have to ask the woman captain if Skalany had anything of Keetman's disappearance. Would the captain even tell him? She had seemed only mildly polite when he had talked to her.

"What do I do now?" he wondered aloud. His words echoed around the room. "Whom do I talk to?"

Enough worrying. What were the consequences?

If Keetman had had an accident, then Welch's secretary would have found him at a local hospital, or his identification would have been reported to the police. So, he hadn't been a victim of urban crime.

If Keetman had run off with someone, sooner or later the all points bulletin the police had out would turn him up. Welch remembered the face of the man who had sat across from him. Keetman wouldn't run away with another woman. It was obvious that Danielle was the only woman in his life.

If Keetman had run off to set up business for himself... Welch cringed at the disloyal thought. That was possible, if improbable. Of course, if it had to do with the diamond shipment, then Keetman could be planning to steal the diamonds and vanish. Welch shook his head in disbelief. This wasn't the first shipment of expensive goods Keetman had been involved with. In fact, it was one of the cheaper ones. It was likely that he'd be in charge of part of the dismantling of South Africa's nuclear arsenal, and that was where he could make money. No one back home believed that he would take the money and run. Bigger heists were on the horizon if he wanted to do that.

If Keetman had been kidnapped, he could be dead now. What he knew was probably now known by his captors. Everything was compromised, even those special arrangements that Keetman had mentioned in passing. Who could have done it? Why?

"So, first, I call and alert people at home," Welch concluded aloud, putting his hands on the top of his desk and staring at them. The mutilated fingers reminded him that someone would have to, sooner or later, tell Danielle Keetman her husband was missing. "Then, I'd better change all the security arrangements. I'll call Daterman later."

He picked up his phone and dialed South Africa.

  
Peter caught up with Kermit as the man was getting into his car at the same motel where Carla had stayed. "Where you headed?"

"Broderick gave me Holms' address," Kermit said grimly. "I'm going over there."

"I'll go with you," Peter stated flatly, ignoring Kermit's expression. "He might have had a friend. You need back-up, Kermit!"

"You're telling me I need backup?" Kermit said in disbelief. Peter Caine seldom preached backup. He was notorious for going in without calling for it.

"Besides, his friends would have left town by now," Kermit concluded.

"What do you expect to find?"

"Follow me and we'll both find out." Kermit slammed shut his door, and started the engine.

Peter ran to the Stealth and started it up. The heavy traffic made it easy to follow Kermit to a hotel not far from where the ball had been held the night before. It was a grade above Carla's rooms but far below the Sutton Park.

The green of the Corvair clashed with the electric blue of the Stealth as they parked side-by-side and went inside. Kermit cornered the manager and held up his badge. "We're from the 101st Precinct investigating the death of one of your visitors?"

The brawny manager nodded understanding. "That stuff on the news last night? Some guy named Holms? Thought you might be showing up sometime soon. This way."

Peter's eyebrow went up. "I hope nothing's been moved," he muttered to Kermit, who was marching along with a grim expression.

The man opened the door to the room. "I had the maids stay out. You take as long as you want in here."

"Thanks," Peter said as Kermit went inside without a word.

The room was about as anonymous as a hotel room could be. The closet was closed, the bed smooth, and even the menu hadn't been moved from where it lay on the small bedside table. The clock in the television said six-thirty. No wonder Peter felt hungry.

"What are we looking for?" he finally asked as Kermit began to prowl the room.

"Holms knew about Danielle Keetman. He knew what she looked like."

"I thought he had retired to New Mexico," Peter protested.

Kermit swung around on him. "What?"

"Rykker told me that Holms had retired to New Mexico where he was running guns," Peter explained. He'd forgotten that Kermit had already been gone when he told Simms about the discussion with Rykker.

"Peter, he was very specific about Danielle. Either he had seen her recently or someone told him about her," Kermit said flatly. "If he was in New Mexico, who could have told him? I talked with the room clerk at Carla's hotel. She said some Chinese guy went in there today. Now the syringe that they used on me is gone. No prints, though. I waited till I found that out from the team."

"Chinese guy..." echoed Peter, trying to remember something. "I wonder if it was Steshka's bodyguard. He had a couple of Asians at the Ball."

"What are you talking about?" Kermit demanded acidly. "Steshka?"

"Rykker said one of the bodyguards was a Hsi Xing-Hing," Peter said. Kermit's face darkened at the name. "Do you know him?"

"Oh, yeah. He was so into torturing people that even the Communists couldn't take him. He was supposed to have been executed. I remember one other thing about him."

"What?"

"He's supposed to be a marksman."

"Good enough to pick off Holms in the middle of a crowd of policemen?" Peter asked intently.

"Good enough to pick off a fly in the middle of crowd of policemen," Kermit affirmed.

"Why kill Holms?"

"A loose end," Kermit said dismissively. He opened the closet and began going through Holms' suit jackets. "This is all inconclusive, Peter, unless we find proof."

Peter leaned on the wall next to the closet and eyed his friend. "Kermit, what do you know about a guy named Steshka?"

Kermit avoided looking at him. "I recognize the name, Peter. I'll run a check on him and get back to you."

Peter knew Kermit was lying. The computer expert had a memory that could dredge up the most junior mercenary and give a full bio. Why was he avoiding discussing Steshka? His stomach rumbled with hunger.

Kermit glared at him. "If you help out, we might get this done faster. Or you can just go eat."

"Sure." Peter went to the bathroom. "But what do I look for?"

"Why Steshka is here."

  
Jody's feet hurt. She'd mentioned this only once to Blake, who had met her in front of a fruit stand in Chinatown, but she was sure he was remembering her acid commentary. They had searched up and down the block since Peter had called in that his father had seen Keetman the night before, thereby extending their knowledge of the mysterious man's whereabouts. She glanced at her watch. Eight o'clock. She was hungry too.

Strenlich had found out from the taxi dispatchers a cab driver who remembered the stranger who had had him follow another cab to Chinatown, and tipped extravagantly. The pieces were falling together except that it all ended the moment Keetman walked out of Caine's apartment.

Stars were starting to twinkle overhead as night fell. It was still hot though. Too hot for the jacket Jody was wearing over her holster and slacks.

"What now?" Blake asked coming beside her.

She eyed the man. She respected him for his ability to bug any room, but not as a street investigator. Still, he had occasionally surprised her. "We ask them again."

"They're a closed-mouthed bunch," Blake mused looking around. "There has to be some clue?"

Jody shrugged slightly. "I guess we start with Caine's apartment, and broaden our search."

"We did that hours ago," Blake said flatly. "No one is talking."

"Perhaps no one saw anything," Jody replied, sounding tired as they walked along the crowded street until they reached the alley. "At that time of night, any noise out on the street -- "

Blake grabbed her arm. "That's it."

"What?" she eyed him quizzically.

"We don't ask the shopkeepers. If they hear a noise, they call the police. We ask the street people."

"Huh? You're not making sense."

"Listen." He turned and scanned the area. "Let's say he comes out here, and someone abducts him. What do we know about this Keetman?"

"He's a soldier," Jody snapped, "who plays with mercenaries."

"So, he's a fighter. If he's mugged, he would fight. There would be a body if he had been killed...or he would have come to the precinct," Blake continued doggedly.

She began to catch on. "If he's dead, there'd be a body.,,"

"So, he isn't dead. He was taken by surprise though or they couldn't have gotten him. Agreed?"

She spread her hands. "Or he knew the abductors and went with them peaceably."

"Fair enough. However, if there was a trace, the local merchants wouldn't know it -- they're in their beds."

"So?" she asked, scanning the alley with renewed interest.

"So, ask the prostitutes or someone who might be out that late. I don't have a clue. I'm making this up as I go," Blake admitted with an apologetic smile.

She smiled back at him, realizing she liked the quiet man. "But, it makes sense. So, we talk to the hookers?"

"It's all we've got," he said quietly.

They split up, going different ways up the street.

Jody was the first to spot the incongruously dapper derelict seated against a wall, huddled as if he were keeping out of everyone's way. His small box was empty of quarters.

He looked at her with distrust as she came out of the crowd. "Whaddya want?"

"Where'd you get the coat?" she asked in a serious tone.

His grimy hand stroked the luxurious broadcloth of the tuxedo jacket. "Found it."

"Found it where?" she inquired.

"Nowhere," the homeless man muttered, folding his hands defensively over his chest.

"It must have been somewhere," she said gently. "Have you had it long?"

"Who're you?"

She flipped open her badge. "101st. Want to tell me about the coat?"

"I found it, like I told you!"

Footsteps beyond her made her look behind. Blake came up. "Where?" he asked.

The man stared at him defiantly.

Jody smiled her most sympathetic smile. "We won't take it away from you unless we have to. Where did you find it and when?"

He sniffed and wiped his hand on his nose. "Today," he mumbled so low it was almost inaudible. "It was lying in the garbage can. I just picked it up."

"Which can?" Blake asked urgently.

The man pointed to the wire basket nearest to Caine's alley. "There. I just took it."

"I'll check it," Blake said, touching Jody's shoulder. She nodded, her attention on the derelict.

"So, you just found it there? Find anything else?" she asked.

The man looked furtive. "Nothing."

"You don't lie very well," she remarked her tone hardening. "Tell me again. Did you find anything?"

He flicker her a glance, then huddled closer. "Whatcha gonna do?"

"I think maybe you should go to the shelter," she suggested gently.

"No!" He scrambled to his knees, pleading. His bare feet were filthy and scuffed. "I been there. They're nasty."

"Did you find anything in the coat?" she asked.

He fumbled in the pocket, and pulled out a passport with an engraved seal on it. "This. Only this. Not worth anything."

Jody gingerly took it from him, realizing that it might have to be cleaned. She flipped it open, and the name popped right off the front page.  
Alexander Keetman. So, whatever happened to him, his jacket had been left on the street with his passport in it. "You didn't see the man who owned this?" she asked the man who had sank back to his huddled position. Behind her, she could hear Blake going through the trash.

"Told ya. Found it in the garbage," the man mumbled virtuously. "I'm no thief."

She eyed him reflectively, thinking she'd better find a way to get the coat back for evidence. How to do it was the problem.

Blake came up behind her. "Nothing more. But I'll bet that somewhere in that coat," Blake's gaze when to the derelict who was staring at them, "are fingerprints that could led us to the kidnappers."

"Cloth doesn't hold fingerprints."

"Buttons might."

She turned back to the derelict. "How much for the coat?"

He licked his lips. "How much?"

Blake smiled grimly. "We can just haul him in as an accessory to a kidnapping. Give him a night's stay -- "

"KIDNAPPING!" the man scrambled to his feet, stripping off the coat and thrusting it at her. "I'm no kidnapper', no, nothing like that, just pick up da thing. You take it, lady, you take it!"

Startled, she accepted the jacket and the man scurried off into the darkness before they could stop him.

"He forgot his box," Blake said, reaching down and picking it up.

Jody threw the coat over her arm, and pulled a twenty dollar bill out of her pocket, putting it in the box. "He was helpful, Blake."

Blake grinned. "Yeah." He put the box down with her twenty in it. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled a matching bill, and dropped it in, weighing it down with several quarters.

"So, what do we know now?" Jody asked as they walked back towards their car.

"We can be pretty sure he was kidnapped," Blake summarized. "We might even get lucky and find some prints."

  
Peter bounded up the stairs to the quiet squadroom. Not one of the detective's desks had an occupant, though Broderick was at the muster desk staring at a pile of paperwork. With a resolute expression, he started filing. "Hi, Pete."

"They're all out then?" Peter questioned looking at the room.

"All except the captain and she wants to see you, Peter," Broderick concluded soberly. "So, you'd better check in. I think she has something more on your missing man."

"Keetman? Right." Peter walked over to the office and rapped on the glass. The glow of light inside told him that Simms was still hard at work.

"Come in," she called. Peter twisted the knob and went inside.

"You wanted to speak with me, captain?" he asked.

She eyed him coldly and waved him towards a seat. "Yes, I did. Have you heard the latest update?"

"No."

"Powell and Blake found Keetman's coat down in Chinatown. They're running it through the fingerprints right now."

"Chinatown..." Peter let his words trail off. "So, he was kidnapped?"

"We still don't have a witness, but I think we can conclude that, yes, his disappearance is inadvertent," she grated harshly.

She looked tired, Peter thought. The pressure was bringing her to a boil. She pulled out a file and handed it to Peter. "Here is something you might not have seen. We got a statement from the man your Rykker mentioned, Steshka, last night. He was here at the precinct."

"Nicholas Steshka," Peter murmured. "What did he have to say?"

"Not much. Said he was a businessman. Interpol sent me a file on him and he's dirty, but we don't have a reason to interrogate him except that he was at that party with all the rest of our players."

"What about his henchman, Hsi?"

"A vicious little piranha," she snapped tossing him another file. "He's got charges against him, but they were dropped when no one would testify. Not a good man to cross."

"So I hear, Captain," Peter said soberly, studying the man's face. "He's a martial artist?"

"Like your father."

Peter looked up. "He's a kick-boxer. Not like my father."

She smiled. "Not like your father."

A knock on the door forestalled his comment. Broderick opened the door, "Captain?"

"Yes, Sergeant?" she called.

"Line two. It's important, Captain."

She picked up the phone. "Captain Simms?"

Peter watched her expression change to disbelief and worry, then she put down the phone. Her gaze met his. "We'd better get to the hospital!"

"What?" He stood up. "What happened?"

"Someone attacked Skalany in Keetman's hotel room. Paramedics brought her in!"

"What! Is she all right?" Peter blurted out as Simms pulled on her jacket.

"They're x-raying her jaw," she said grimly. "Apparently, she's got a perfect boot print on her face."

"He kicked her?" Peter said in outrage as he followed Simms across the office.

"That's what she wrote. She can't talk right now," the captain finished. "We'll take your car, Caine."

"Yes, Captain!"

  
Steshka sneered at the people around him on the bustling street. Chinatown was cloaked in a nightgown of neon signs and paper lanterns swaying in the light breeze. Tourists stared in the windows of jewelry stores promoting diamond necklaces at twice their worth. The restaurants bustled with patrons.

He walked down the sidewalk, his gaze on the uniformed policemen who were scanning the crowds for lawbreakers or pickpockets.

He felt invulnerable here. No one knew who he was, and no one cared in particular. He would be gone before they tracked down his actions, and all the evidence was wrapped up and would be disposed of long before his flight took off. Hsi had told him that the police were looking for Keetman, but Steshka felt his hidingplace was good enough for now.

What should he do with Keetman? It was possible that Keetman might still be worth something. Who would ransom him? Perhaps, his wife, and maybe some of his friends in South Africa. How could he set that up without being caught? Intriguing question. Still, would the consulate assume that Keetman's arrangements were suspect? How long did he have before they changed everything? He shrugged. If they changed the arrangements, then he would get the new orders from his agent, and kill Keetman outright. The man had no more use for him.

Suddenly, a man stepped out of the crowd, his right hand raised. He walked forward as if to greet an old friend, raising his other hand to show he wasn't armed.

Steshka held up his hand, and Teng, who had been moving in, stepped back. "Rykker?"

"I hadn't expected to see you again, Steshka," Rykker said urbanely, his dark eyes watching the man's face. "I thought you'd leave town after the Ball."

"I had business to finish up here," Steshka said urbanely. "The rumors are hot about Blaisdell."

"Yes, I know," Rykker agreed. "I'm tracking down the truth right now."

"Right now?" Steshka felt a stab of curiosity. "What do you have, Rykker?"

Rykker held up his hands. "That kind of information for free, Nicholas? Oh, come, now."

"You still owe me a lot of money," Steshka said with a frigid smile. "This could be called payback?"

"I'll call you tomorrow," Rykker suggested. "We can meet."

"Why should I be interested in information on Blaisdell?" Steshka asked mockingly. "The old man's not in the game right now. Hasn't been for years."

Rykker looked around at the bustling crowds. "Looks like a good crowd. A healthy group to be fleeced. I know there are a couple of local warlords like Bon Bon Hai -- "

"A local man," Steshka said disdainfully. "I can buy him for the diamonds in my earring." The small setting with five diamonds flashed in the neon lights.

"But there's money to be made," Rykker continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. "Blaisdell kept this as his personal preserve. No hunting by big game hunters."

"Are you saying there are other hunters?" Steshka asked.

Rykker met his eyes. "Always. I'm seeing one tomorrow. He's the one who knows the most about Blaisdell."

"I've always thought someone ought to wipe out that family," Steshka said thoughtfully. "I mean if you are going to destroy someone, you should try to destroy it, root and stem."

"Seems like overkill," Rykker commented casually. "In that case, I'd have to kill the entire Keetman family for Danielle's actions years ago!"

Steshka gave a contemptuous laugh. "You are still worried about Alexander Keetman?"

"He was at the Ball. It brought back memories," Rykker said blandly.

"Don't worry about Keetman or his family," Steshka replied with a dismissive shrug of his shoulders. "They'll not be a problem much longer."

"Really?"

Steshka lifted his arm and waved at the crowds. "Look around you. All the sheep to be fleeced."

"Only if Blaisdell is really gone..." Rykker mused.

"Tomorrow, meet me in the afternoon," Steshka said abruptly. "I will send a car to your hotel. Where are you staying?"

Rykker held up his hand in protest. "I'll meet you -- "

"Be down at the piers by the gate. I'll send a car. Bring your contact if you wish. I'll make it worth your money, Rykker. I need to know about Blaisdell."  
Rykker nodded. "That sounds fair. Tomorrow at three." He faded into the crowds.

Steshka began walking again, his stride brisker. Teng followed like a giant shadow. Tomorrow, he would deal with Keetman and Blaisdell. It would be more satisfying to keep the colonel alive but Steshka would then have to set up the ransom and recovery...it was too much work. He would finish getting all the details of the arrangements from Keetman, then kill him.

  
The hospital's emergency room was the usual mad scene on a hot summer's night.

Going inside, they were stopped by Doctor Sanbourin, who recognized Peter. "What are you doing here, Peter?" she asked. "Wounded, again?"

"Heard that one of our detectives are here," he replied, shooting her a wry smile. "I thought you worked days?"

"I do. They were short-staffed this week, and I volunteered to come in," the elegant doctor said.

"Yes," Simms said before Peter could reply. "Our detective?"

"That room," Sanbourin replied, pointing to a cubicle at the end with curtains around it. "I've given her some pain killers."

"How is she?" Peter asked soberly.

"Well, she won't be talking," the woman said grimly. "The jaw's cracked. We had to wire it shut."

"How'd they find her, doctor?" Simms inquired crisply.

The curtain was swept back before the doctor could answer and they met Strenlich's angry glare. "A hotel maid went in to turn down the bed. She screamed so loudly that the guests complained and Carstairs came up," he said grimly.

"I'll leave you alone," Dr. Sanbourin suggested, stepping out of the way. "Oh, heavens, another stabbing!" The paramedics burst past them with a body on a gurney and she followed at a run.

Simms and Peter looked at Skalany's bruised face. She tried a weak smile but winced as pain shot through her. She held an ice pack against her jaw.

"They plan to keep her overnight," Strenlich commented tersely, pulling the curtain closed behind them.

"You're out of action for a week," Simms commented, eyeing her.

Skalany frowned drowsily. She waved her hand in protest but let it sink down to rest on a sheaf of paper.

Strenlich pulled the papers out from underneath her hand. "She was writing up a report before they gave her the pills."

"You were here?" Peter asked.

"I was about to leave for home when the report came in," the chief said soberly. "I came right over."

Skalany opened her eyelids and hit Strenlich on the arm with her fingers, then stabbed at the report.

"Sorry," he said, handing the sheets to Simms. "Captain, I had the fingerprints group go over to the hotel room and document it. They didn't find a thing."

"The prints were cleaned up?" Simms said, trying to read Skalany's handwriting. Either the pain or the drugs had made it incoherent.

"Must have been," the chief replied. "Probably with a rumpled shirt that we found on the floor."

"Captain!" the curtain was unexpectedly swept back by Jody, who arrived with Blake on her heels. "Jesus, Skalany!"  
Skalany waved.

Simms raised an eyebrow, "Yes?"

"We've got a match on the button print," Blake said over Jody's shoulder. "It belongs to this guy." He held out a sheet of paper with a small grainy black and white photograph attached.

Peter craned his neck to see. "Who is it?"

"That's not all," Powell said sharply. "It's not only the button."

"Hmm?" Simms said reading the paper. "Peter?" She held it out to Peter who took it and his eyebrows went up in surprise.

"The prints on the button match the prints in Carla Costca's apartment on the nightstand," Blake said urgently. "He must have been in there as well."

"Who is it, Peter?" Strenlich asked reaching for the sheet.

"Hsi Xing-Hing," Peter said grimly. "Steshka's assistant."

Skalany grabbed at the paper. He looked startled, then winced as pain shot through her jaw. She slapped at the photograph. "UMMM!"

"UMMM?" Strenlich asked, then realization spread over his face. "It was him?"

She nodded once before the pain made her stop. "Ummm!"

"Hsi was the one who attacked you?" Simms asked with an icy calm.

Skalany gingerly nodded.

Simms looked around at the small ensemble. "Then let's get an APB out on this Hsi as soon as possible."

"Hsi was in Keetman's hotel room. His prints are on the button which may or may not be part of the kidnapping of Keetman," Peter said confidently.

"He attacked Skalany. I think we've got enough to nail him for decades."

"What do we do now?" Jody asked looking at Peter, then Simms.

Simms' eyes narrowed speculatively. "Chief, put out an APB. Caine, I will give you till nine a.m. tomorrow to talk with this Rykker and get whatever information you can. The rest of you, get some rest. I'm calling a meeting for nine thirty. We'll go over everything and see where we go next."

"We could go over it now," Peter started, but stopped when she shot him an irritated look.

"We're all tired, Caine. Tomorrow."

Skalany let out a sigh, drawing everyone's attention. She flapped her hand as if to shoo them out.

"Everyone in my office at nine thirty and bring all you've found," Simms ordered. "Skalany, I'll make sure your report gets back. You're on sick leave until you heal."

Skalany nodded fractionally, then caught at Peter's arm as the group started to leave.

He paused, looking back.

She tapped on Hsi's sheet, then made a fist.

He laid one hand on it. "I'll give him a good one for you, Mary Margaret."

She nodded emphatically.

  
Kermit sat in his office, all the lights off except for the glow of his computer screen. The blinds were all closed and the door locked to give the illusion of emptiness.

He had spent an hour searching databases from Interpol to the CIA culling information on Alexander Keetman, Nangolo Otaya, and Nicholas Steshka.  
He looked at the small pile of documents he had printed off. Keetman's records were mostly classified, and, to his great disgust, Kermit found that some of the secure databases weren't open to him. He could have hacked into them but knew better. He would do it only if he had to.

Keetman's military history could be pieced together and was fairly impressive. Some of the South Africa's most successful raids into Angola had been conducted by the soldier. Even now his deeds at the border to Mozambique were showing results.  
Kermit looked at Otaya's file. It was larger than Keetman's. The former guerilla fighter had done well for himself after the withdrawal, becoming a respected businessman in Namibia, and working for the African National Congress cause in South Africa. Three years ago, he had left Namibia to vote in the election, then was chosen to be a part of the government by Mandela. His record was spotless. He had been assigned to London for the last several months.

"My, how things change," Kermit mused. "Who would have thought that fifteen years later, I'd be a cop, Otaya would be an government official, and Keetman would still be a soldier?"

Nicholas Steshka was the owner of a small diamond mine in Zimbabwe, selling his diamonds outside the established cartel. In time he would either be bought out or eradicated, whichever would appeal to the less ethical members of the cartel who didn't like freelancers cutting into their profits. His record in Moscow had been unimpressive. Kermit came away with the opinion that the Soviets had cashiered him.

"And, now for the more esoteric sources..." he murmured. He tapped in a number. A prompt came up, and he typed a password.

The first words were gibberish, then became clear. It was now encrypted and only he and the person on the other end could read their conversation.

"Hey, green-shades, long time, no hear! You never write, you never call, you're an ungrateful wretch!" displayed the responding prompt. "Nice to connect again!"

"Thanks, I missed you too," Kermit typed with a slight smile on his lips. "I need all the information I can get on the movements of an Alexander Keetman, South African Defense Force, for the last ten years."

"South Africa? It will cost you, master of the green glare!"

He grinned. "You always have a new name for me, don't you? Cost is not an object here; only timeliness. Send me the bill; I'll cover it. I need to know who Keetman's enemies are."

"Let me check," came the reply. "By the way, you really should pull up the classifieds. You could make a mint in Bosnia, baby!"

"With what? Weapons? Not my style anymore," Kermit answered. "I thought you were pandering for sex for a minute there."

"The personal ads are becoming kinky," the prompt agreed. "Hold on."

Kermit counted the seconds that it took for his contact to pull the mysterious files together. The mercenary networks were as extensive as the intelligence networks set up by countries, and this one kept up on all the players in the field. It also cost a fortune. Kermit set up a file to capture any information coming across the screen and settled back to wait.

He found himself impatiently tapping on the arm of the chair, so he consciously willed himself to calm down. He closed his eyes and thought back over the last couple of days and tried to make sense of it all.

Danielle/Carla was a done deal. He knew why she had come and was now dead. He knew why Holms was there as well, to go to the Ball and to get the gun shipment out of the warehouse. He had also been interested in making sure Carla didn't discover that Holms had betrayed them all those years ago. Fine. There was one loose end. Who were the weapons for and why were they here in town at this very moment? He'd find that out if he had to raise Holms from his grave. Did it have a connection with Steshka? Probably.

So, Keetman was in town for the Ball, but he was also in contact every day with the embassy. Kermit's instincts went off. Keetman couldn't have only been in the city for a party. There was some other reason. So, why kidnap him? What had Peter said, and Kermit dimly remembered, about Keetman and Steshka? Blood feud. Did Keetman have other enemies at the Ball?

Words began to run across the screen from his mysterious contact.

"Hm, this is a long file. Want me to sum it up for you, or do you want very, very raw inconclusive data?"

He hesitated, then typed, "Your summary." He knew the person on the other end was one of the keenest observers of human nature he had never met. He was never sure of how she kept up with her files, since she had a very active social and professional life, but underneath the rich and well-educated veneer, she had the ethics of a true mercenary. She also was faultlessly honest to those who bought her information. There weren't many she'd sell to.  
"Keetman, Alexander, Colonel, SADF, retired. Born of Daan Keetman and Mary Potter. Graduate of the University of Cape Town, entered military in early nineteen-seventies, and after proving his worth in the Commandoes, was sentenced to Namibia where he was given the thankless task of opposing the SWAPO guerrillas."

Kermit whistled slightly. "Sentenced to Namibia? He must have gotten on someone's nerves in the military," he murmured. "Too good a man at his job to lose, but put him where there wasn't any power -- after all, he probably wasn't part of the Nationalist party."

"After S. Africa's withdrawal from Namibia, he was assigned to the Mozambique border. They're having an immigration problem there right now with thousands of immigrants flooding South Africa. He's in charge of part of the border guard.

FAMILY: Wife, Dr. Danielle Keetman, three children: Robert, b.1975, Nicole, b.1981, Alicia b. 1985."

Kermit grimaced. He hadn't known Keetman had children. Well, the Consulate had the job of telling Mrs. Keetman about her husband.

He waited till she paused, then typed, "Nicholas Steshka."

"A bad man. Steshka was thrown out of the military after his bosses discovered he was running a diamond mine on the side, and using prisoners gained in Namibian raids to do it. Pure slavery. He basically bought his release and went back to Angola. He got Hsi Xing-Hing from the Chinese about five years ago. Before then, he had an incompetent called Antony Holms providing him with guns and ammunition, but Steshka got tired of cleaning up after Holms."

"Hmmm," Kermit muttered. He typed, "When did Holms join up with Steshka?"

"Let's see...1981. He appeared out of nowhere and took over the job. Did pretty well for a while, but it went to hell."

"Bingo. Holms sold out the troop for the weapons and bought his way into Steshka's mine," Kermit said out loud. He hadn't realized how quiet it was and jumped as his words echoed off the walls. "Now what?" he typed.

"Steshka is currently in the United States trying to get funding to pay off improvements to his mine," the reply came promptly. "The equipment didn't provide enough diamonds to satisfy his creditors, who, by the way, are members of the diamond cartel. Unless he provides the monies in the next three months, they will take over his mine. He is prepared to defend his mine, but he's short of weapons. They say he's expecting a shipment of Tec-9s -- "

"Like hell he is," laughed Kermit mirthlessly. "Holms' guns were for Steshka, after all. I wonder what else he trying to get in the way of funding."  
He tapped in, "What about Hsi Xing-Hing? He should be connected with Steshka."

"Oh, that one," she retorted. "Bad stuff, baby, bad stuff. Ruthless enough to pass all the Khmer Rouge tests and think they were kid stuff. Born in Oman of two Chinese parents, he was cut loose at an early age and went into the military as a hobby. Came out a killer, teamed up with Steshka, and is rolling in cash. Don't get in his way."

He typed, "Thanks, that's what I needed."

She replied, "Thank you, sweetheart. We know the payment will arrive in the next e-mail from the land of cuckoo-clocks. Do visit me sometime. I miss drinking you under the table."

"Keep yourself safely tucked away," Kermit answered. "Make sure your mainframes are secure."

"Mainframes? How passe! I'm into networking now," the prompt replied airily.

"One last question -- who'd you prefer to keep alive: Keetman or Steshka?" Kermit asked unexpectedly.

"Keetman. He's been unexpectedly liberal and the current government approves of him," she typed. "If you meet Steshka, assume he's lying."

"Sounds like a charmer."

"He's a serpent."

"One more thing. Got any pictures of Steshka?"

"Steshka killed the last photographer. Sorry," she replied.

"Take care of yourself."

"You too." He logged off and printed out the information.

So neat, so tidy, so complete. The picture from Holms to Steshka to the guns was complete. The scenario of Steshka and Keetman was missing pieces.

Why it had happened was the main piece. Steshka needs money so he kidnaps his worst enemy? Kermit suddenly wondered if the Consulate had received a ransom demand. He was sure Captain Simms would have told the detectives if she'd heard about one, and from what he'd heard of Welch, the man would have reported it.

So, why do it? Why had Keetman been in town in the first place?

Kermit paused in his typing and leaned back in his chair. The light from his monitor reflected in his dark glasses. He thought back to Africa. It had all started back there.

Keetman...Blaisdell. Had Keetman been in town to see Blaisdell? Had he expected to see the Captain at the Mercenaries' Ball?

Kermit pulled off his glasses and rubbed his burning eyes. It reminded him of the day in the hot sun where Keetman had saved him. His scout...Otaya, Otaya, something, had shot the hyena that nearly bit him. Small black-skinned man. He followed that trace of thought through long hours of misery in the back of the Land Rover, slipping in and out of consciousness.

The house. Keetman suggesting that Paul not care too much about his men in a tone that was the opposite of his words. Williams asking questions, Alphonse nearly killing him. Danielle's soothing touch. The room with the cool sheets, and white gauze over his eyes, and her telling Blaisdell that he would be able to see again. Blaisdell saying something to Keetman about.. he strained to remember. About an unconditional promise...Blaisdell had given Keetman a promise. Keetman had asked if Kermit would pay it, if Blaisdell couldn't.

Kermit found himself unconsciously bending his glasses back and forth. That was what had been nagging at his memory. Could Keetman have been in town to ask Blaisdell for his promised payoff? Did that mean that Keetman's disappearance was simply because he was trying to find Paul Blaisdell? The soldier had come to town and found the captain gone.

But why should Keetman want to find Blaisdell after all these years? Or was this totally the wrong path?

What was he going to tell Peter? Was he going to tell Peter about the promise? Kermit nibbled on his lip. Peter considered himself Blaisdell's son and would take the promise on himself. Deep inside himself, Kermit felt it was his burden. Would he tell Peter? No. This was his debt to pay.  
Kermit shook himself and put on his glasses. He began to type up his notes for Captain Simms.

  
The next morning, Strenlich walked into the mostly empty squadroom at the same moment Simms was opening the door to her office. They both heard her phone ringing as she walked inside, catching herself as she stepped on several typewritten sheets on the carpet in front of her door.

"Simms," she said curtly, dumping her jacket, purse and briefcase on the littered desk.

"This is Commissioner Kincaid," came a terse reply. "Where have you been?"

She looked startled. "I just got in, sir."

"Obviously. That kidnapping you briefed me on yesterday? It has bigger ramifications. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

Simms looked around frantically. She gestured at Strenlich who was watching her. "I'll be here, sir."

"Make sure you have the latest, Captain." Kincaid hung up abruptly.

Strenlich stopped on the threshold. "Captain?"

"Commissioner Kincaid will be right over for a briefing on the Keetman kidnapping. How fast can you type?"

"I read Jody's report last night as well as what Skalany managed to send. It looks like we have to get this Hsi person off our streets before he attacks more of our detectives."

"As well as our tourists," she said with a hint of humor.

"I had Keetman's passport picture blown up to eight by tens," Strenlich said handing her a copy of the grainy color photograph. "I'm having it disseminated to all the patrolmen. We're doing all we can."

"I'll try and explain that to the Commissioner. What's that on the floor?" she asked.

Strenlich picked up the sheets and scanned them. "Keetman's resume, along with information on Steshka and other stuff. Kermit must have gotten it off the computer networks..."

She took it from his hand. "Fascinating. I'll read it later. Let's get to work."

"I'll put an extra pot of coffee on," Strenlich called as he left.

  
Peter looked at his watch as he sat in the hotel cafe waiting for Rykker to appear. It was three minutes to nine; too darned late, he thought. Where the hell was Rykker?

Almost magically the man appeared and sat down opposite him. They waited until the waitress poured his coffee and left.

"What have you got for me?" Peter asked urgently. "Anything?"

"What are you doing around two?" Rykker parried.

"Around two p. m. or a.m? Looking for Keetman!"

Rykker said urgently, "Peter, I talked with Steshka last night in Chinatown."

"What!" Peter exclaimed, leaning forward. His voice was unexpectedly loud and other patrons turned and stared for a second.

Rykker shook his head reproachfully. "Don't scare the horses, Peter. He was in Chinatown checking it out."

"Did he say anything about Keetman?"

"He said, 'Don't worry about Keetman and his family'."

Peter stared at him. "What does that mean?"

"I take it to mean he has Keetman and is going to kill him," Rykker said succinctly, "as well as the rest of Keetman's family. There's a vendetta there."

"Do you think he's dead?"

"Ask Steshka, if you want." Rykker leaned forward, pitching his voice low. "Peter, I lured him into this meeting to talk about Blaisdell's absence. I told him I'd bring someone along who could give him information."

Peter frowned, then he made the connection. "Me? You want me along with you?"

"Yes, but you'd better change," Rykker said dryly, eying the casual jeans and tee shirt Peter was wearing. "He sets a great deal of importance by status symbols."

"I'll put on my most expensive suit," Peter promised dryly. "At two?"

"Meet me at Lee's restaurant on the pier. Steshka's sending a car. He contacted me this morning," Rykker said, tossing a dollar on the table for the coffee. "I'll see you then."

"Where you headed, Rykker?" Peter couldn't refrain from asking.

The mercenary smiled at him. "I'm off to talk to my creditors. Two o'clock, Peter."

Peter stared out over the crowd as the man disappeared around a corner. Suddenly, he bolted to his feet. "I'd better call the captain!" He dropped some money and left before the waitress could reach his table.

  
Commissioner Kincaid walked into Simms' office. Christiaan Welch nodded politely to the captain, then moved to one side. The third person, a stoop-shouldered man, smiled timidly.

Strenlich came in, at her signal, and shut the door.

"What's the situation?" Kincaid barked.

Simms raised her eyebrow, then sat down behind her desk. "We have found Mr. Keetman's passport and his jacket. We have an approximate time and place of where it happened, and we have located a likely suspect for the kidnapping."

"Then, what you haven't done is found the Colonel or the kidnapper?" Welch asked politely.

"That is correct," Simms said in a damping tone. "One of my detectives was injured last night pursuing a lead. Now, I believe that you have something to tell me?"

Welch exchanged glances with Kincaid. "Yes, we do. I have spoken with my government regarding this situation, and they are looking into their end of this matter. However, I have spoken with the commissioner and he has decided that you need to know about the total situation."

"Yes?" she asked in an arctic tone.

"This is Mr. Daterman of the First National Bank," Kincaid began, waving to the businessman with the receding hairline, a discreetly tailored suit, and a face that would blur into blandness the instant he left. The perfect banker.

"Mr. Daterman?" she said politely, shaking his hand. It was dry and soft.

"Captain Simms," he said in a colorless tone.

"Karen, Colonel Keetman was in charge of security for a special delivery coming into town tomorrow," the commissioner said, sitting down in a chair.

"A delivery?" she asked curiously.

Daterman cleared his throat. "I'm sure you've been keeping up with the latest in world affairs, Captain."

Simms eyed him suspiciously. The world had been coming to her precinct in the persons of numerous mercenaries all with clean records that she didn't believe. She didn't have to keep up on it. "I watch the evening news, Mr. Daterman."

"Then you know in 1991, an election was held in South Africa. It brought Nelson Mandela into power, sweeping away the Nationalist government, and putting his own men in."

"I have heard of him," Simms acknowledged sharply.

"The country is beginning to revive its international trade and many of our businesses are going there for trade," Daterman continued almost apologetically.

"Their standard of living -- " the commissioner started.

"For a great deal of the population, most of it black, is abysmal," Daterman agreed. "The government is working on upgrading that as well as their rail and air systems. Rome was not built in a day, nor will the poor get their apartments in a day."

She looked from him to the commissioner and spread her hands. "Yes?"

"The First National bank and several others have agreed to make multimillion dollar loans to the government of South Africa so that it may continue its building and business transactions," the banker explained, his voice growing more confident as he went on. "We have asked for something as collateral so that if the loans go sour -- "

"You aren't out millions," Simms interrupted suddenly understanding everything.

"Many millions," Daterman said deprecatingly. "Anyway, the South Africans are sending us their collateral on Wednesday and Colonel Keetman was working with airport security to make sure everything was safe."

"Exactly what is this impoverished county sending us?" Simms asked dryly.

"Something they have in abundance," Daterman replied, staring straight at her. "Diamonds."

Strenlich glanced at Kincaid who blew out his cheeks, then at Welch, who was staring out the window. The attache unexpectedly looked at Strenlich, meeting his eyes, then he turned to watch Simms who was staring at the banker, her eyes widening.

"Diamonds," she mused. "Diamonds. How many diamonds?"

"Ten million dollars worth of industrial and gem grade diamonds," Kincaid cut in. "To be held at the bank as security against default."

She sat back stunned. Ten million dollars? That was a lot of rock. In her mind's eye, she could see them spread out glittering on black velvet cloth like the milky way. Enough to kill for.

"Since the Colonel has vanished, we must assume that the security arrangements are compromised," Welch said abruptly. "So, we need to set up new arrangements. Mr. Minister Otaya is coming in tomorrow on the twelve-thirty flight from London. The customs officials at the airport promised to have Otaya and his people processed and out without having to deal with the main customs cattle-call."

"From there?"

"I've been setting up new arrangements to take Otaya directly to the bank where there is a special luncheon at which the news of the loan will be made public, and the diamonds shown off to the press and selected visitors. The bank security has been notified that Colonel Keetman is missing, and they are changing their arrangements at the vault." Welch waved at Daterman. "He is in charge of that."

"Your minister has people with him?" she inquired.

"His bodyguard and secretary." Welch added, "I'll see if I can get you photographs."

"Thank you," Simms acknowledged.

"You understand the importance of this," Kincaid said harshly. "This is a multi-million dollar problem, Captain."

She stared him straight in the eyes. "I know, sir, and we will broaden our search immediately. However, I would like to know what Colonel Keetman's arrangements were."

"Certainly," Daterman said unexpectedly. He fished in his briefcase and pulled out several sheets of paper.

Welch's eyes narrowed suspiciously but he didn't say anything.

Strenlich noted the reaction and re-examined the bank man.

Simms took the pages and gave them a cursory look. "You have the luncheon set up, Mr. Daterman?"

"I do," the man replied.

"I have a suggestion," Welch said unexpectedly. "My government feels, and I agree, that publicity might be good insurance."

Strenlich stared at him in disbelief. "Publicity. About the kidnapping?"

"No, about the loan and the diamonds," Welch replied emphatically. "In light of this security breach, I was told to notify the media of the Minister's arrival time and tell them that the diamonds will be on display at the bank luncheon."

"I was not consulted on this!" Daterman said in shock. His hands clutched his briefcase.

"Nor was I," Kincaid said grimly, staring at the Consulate man. "Whatever made you do this?"

"It is their contention that it's harder to rob or assassinate a person in front of the cameras of the press," Welch retorted. "Tomorrow at the airport there will be a brief news conference announcing the arrival of the Minister, then he will be escorted to the luncheon. That evening there will be a reception at the Consulate but we are in charge of security there."

"I hope you have upgraded it considering that your man has vanished," Simms said dryly.

Anger flashed in Welch's eyes but his tone was smooth. "The arrangements have been modified already."

"Have you considered that the Colonel's disappearance might be his own doing?" Strenlich asked unexpectedly. He wasn't at all delicate in his insinuation that Keetman might be planning something personal.

Welch glared at him, then nodded. "That was one of the scenarios I discussed with my father, General Welch. We both agreed that it was unlikely. The Colonel has been kidnapped, and we expect the help of the United States in finding him."

"Chief Strenlich will work on the new security arrangements with you, Mr. Welch," Simms said decisively cutting in. "He will be in touch with you, Mr. Daterman. I will be keeping you both informed as to the progress of our investigation."

"You will be making this your top priority, Captain," Kincaid ordered.

Simms knew that Kincaid was getting heat from his superiors, but she still resented being ordered about. At least, they hadn't called in the FBI. That was unusual. The Consulate must know something she didn't. "The kidnapping is in our jurisdiction, Commissioner. The airport is not unless we're asked by the security there."

"Captain Simms, I'm asking for your help," Welch said unexpectedly, his tone more human than she had ever heard. "I would like to know what has happened to Colonel Keetman."

Simms looked sympathetically at the young man. Maybe he did have some empathy in his soul. "I will be in touch as soon as we know anything, Mr. Welch."

"Thank you." He stood, drawing the others to their feet. "I have to return to the Consulate now. Good morning, Captain."

She nodded. "Good morning, Mr. Welch."

"We'll let you get to work," Kincaid boomed. "Come along, Daterman."

"Have a good day," Daterman called as he was swept out. "Please keep me informed of any changes, Captain!"

"We will," she promised perfunctorily. "Chief?"

Strenlich escorted them to the stairs, then came back inside her office.

"And what do you think of that, chief?" she asked, a cup of fresh coffee in her hand. She looked like she needed the caffeine.

"I don't trust any of them," Strenlich replied unexpectedly.

"Why do I agree? Let's get started on this."

Detectives had been trailing in during the early morning conference. Kermit was doling out coffee at the machine, Jody was laughing at something he said, Peter was rubbing his face as if he had had too little sleep. Blake was looking through papers on his desk.

"Caine?" Startled, Peter looked up from the file he had just opened. "Please call everyone in here. We have a priority problem for everyone," Simms said crisply.

He looked surprised but called loudly, "Jody? Blake, Kermit, the Captain wants to see us all." He went into the office followed by the others.

"Broderick too," she added crisply.

Strenlich called his name. The desk sergeant looked up in surprise, then shrugged, glancing at the other officer, who nodded in understanding. He joined the detectives in the small room.

Simms sat down behind her desk and looked around at all the curious faces. "Close that door. What I have to say obviously doesn't leave this room. From now on, the top priority in this office is to find Colonel Alexander Keetman."

Peter frowned as he looked at her. "Why?" he asked baldly.

She frowned at his tone. "Tomorrow, a shipment of diamonds is coming into this country as collateral for a loan from the First National Bank to South Africa. Colonel Keetman was the man the new South African government sent ahead to set up security arrangements for the delivery." Simms nodded at the dawning understanding on Kermit's face. "With his disappearance, the security -- "

"I thought he was just here to party," Kermit broke in unexpectedly. He whistled softly. "How much are the diamonds worth, Captain?"

She frowned at him but continued, " -- is compromised."

"Obviously," Kermit murmured.

"You think he's dead?" Blake asked unexpectedly.

Simms shrugged. "I don't know."

"Why was he at that party in the first place?" Jody questioned.

"Checking out the landscape," Blake said with unusual firmness. "If no one knows you are Intelligence, and you have a reputation for being a mercenary, you might be able to find out what will happen before it happens."

Peter stared at him. "You know about this, Blake?"

He shrugged. "I read a lot of spy novels."

"Get out there and find Keetman," Simms said firmly. "Chief Strenlich is working with the South Africans to make sure Minister Otaya -- "

"Otaya!" Kermit ejaculated. "The hyena killer?"

She frowned. "Hyenas?"

"Nothing, Captain."

"Do you know him as well, Kermit?"

The former mercenary shrugged, his face returning to impassiveness. "Maybe."

"Otaya is bringing in the diamonds. Peter, did you hear anything more from your friend, Rykker?"

Peter grimaced. "Rykker. Captain, I'm going to need backup this afternoon. I'm going to a meet with Steshka. Rykker believes that he has Keetman."

The room was stunned into silence. "A meet with Steshka?" Simms finally asked with difficulty.

"Yeah, Rykker has set it up."

"Do you think you'll be able to find out where Keetman is?" Kermit cut in with a trace of unexpected urgency.

"I doubt it," Peter admitted. "Blake, I'll need a bug and a tracer."

"You got it, Pete," Blake agreed.

"I'll back you up," Jody said.

"I'll back you up," Kermit cut in with unexpected emphasis. Jody looked startled, as did Peter.

Simms wondered why Kermit was overreacting to the situation. "I have your summary, Kermit, and I'll read it later. You'll be in the office?"

"Until this meet," Kermit said coldly, his eyes on Peter, whose jaw had dropped.

Strenlich stepped into the strained silence. "Captain, I talked with Welch downstairs on my way out. He wants to meet in an hour at the Consulate. I'd like to take Blake with me to help with the new communications setup."

"Sure!" Blake leaped into the conversation. "I'll get you the bug, Peter and the stuff for you, Kermit, and then we'll go, Chief."

Jody looked wryly at Simms. "I guess I'm back on the streets, Captain?"

"You are Peter's back-up," Simms said sharply, her eyes on Kermit. "Right?"

The man's mouth tightened dangerously.

"This time," Jody inserted hastily before there was an explosion, "He's in your hands, Kermit. Treat him well!"

"I expect a complete report, Griffin," Simms cut in.

"Right. I'll see you in my office, Blake," Kermit said brusquely, and walked out of the office.

Jody let out a soundless whistle and her eyes met Peter's suspicious gaze. "What's gotten into him?"

"I'll find out," Peter stated flatly.

"Do you want more men?" Simms asked.

"Not right now. If we can follow Steshka, he can lead us to Keetman," Peter said firmly. "Arresting him will simply put Keetman in more danger. We can't be sure Steshka will tell us where he is."

"You're right," she said regretfully. "Make sure you stay in touch with Kermit."

"I will."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two of the story is set in 1995

Mary Margaret Skalany held the ice pack against her aching jaw and vowed revenge. She could feel pain where Hsi had landed his blows, but she couldn't even scowl. It hurt too much.

  
She eyed the clock. Ten-thirty in the morning. Where was Doctor Korack to certify her as ready to leave the hospital? She secretly admitted to herself that she was still feeling lousy enough to just sink back on the over-starched sheets and fall asleep again, but the last time she'd done that, she'd slept for almost ten hours, only awakening to find breakfast being served. Hers was liquid. Even chocolate couldn't cover the flat taste.

Someone knocked on the door of the two-bed suite where she was ensconced alone with a view of the hospital parking lot out her window, and the television showing hockey games or soap operas.

The door opened a crack after a moment, and a familiar face looked in. "May...I come in?" Caine asked delicately.

She brightened up and smiled, then froze as the pain shot through her face. Maybe Hsi had broken more than her jaw -- this felt like a crunched cheekbone. She waved for Caine to come in.

He closed the door behind him. In one hand he had his flute, and in the other a bouquet of wildflowers that must have come from a street vendor since it didn't have the freeze-dried look of the bouquets usually found in hospital shops. "I thought...you'd like this."

She pulled herself upright, and brushed back her hair, making sure the hospital gown stayed closed. She sniffed at the flowers, then pointed to her water glass. "There," she mumbled out and winced.

He noticed her flinch and his eyes narrowed, but he filled the glass with water and put in the flowers, which overflowed their too-shallow receptacle.

"Peter came by last night and told me...what happened," he said gently. He reached up to touch her face, and she put the ice pack on the bedside table. "I will be...looking for this man."

She felt herself blushing. "All...Pet...Ahh!"

"Don't talk," Caine instructed. "It will make it worse. I have brought some herbs along that will help with the pain." He patted his pouch.

"Doctor...comin'...later."

He looked her over carefully, and she felt some slight embarrassment. "I don't think you should leave just yet. You still have pain?" he asked.

She nodded, and picked up the ice pack, putting it back on her jaw. "The pills must be hard to get down,' he said sympathetically. "You can...drink with a straw?"

She nodded again.

"Then I shall mix my herbs in a potion and you drink it. They...will put you to sleep. You'll awaken...refreshed," he promised, his eyes smiling into hers.

"Hommme..." she mumbled.

"That is not...a good thought," he said reproachfully. "You are still...in pain. Maybe tomorrow?"

She grimaced.

"Why is it... that no one likes... hospitals?" Caine asked rhetorically. looking up at the dropped ceiling. "First, Kermit....left without saying goodbye, now you."

Mary Margaret mimed a needle in the arm, then shuddered.

"A moment's pain," he teased her gently. "Let me get you a drink."

While Caine was in the bathroom, Dr. Korack came in with a swish of his white coat. He was a stocky man with receding brown hair above his youthful face and overly-white teeth. "Detective Skalany! How are you doing?"

She looked at him with large reproachful eyes, still holding the pack to her face.

"That doe-eyed look isn't having any effect," he said joshingly. "Let me see."

She put the pack back on the table. He took her face in his hands, moved it gently and she flinched. "Let's see. You told the night people...as well as you could that is," he said in a falsely cheerful tone, "that you hit your head and shoulder. Boy, must have been a helluva fight with your boyfriend."

She glared at him, as he gently touched the bruising. "The x-rays show the break in the jaw. How do you feel overall?"

She showed her teeth in a snarl fractionally, enough not to move her jaw.

"Well, I think that perhaps we should keep you the rest of the day for observation," Korack said, making a notation on his pad.

She sat bolt upright in anger and he retreated only to run into Caine, who had silently padded up.

The doctor's gaze fell on the glass in Caine's hand. "What's that?"

"Herbs," Caine said gently. "A soothing drink."

"You'd better not drink it," the doctor advised reaching out his hand. "It might have a bad reaction -- "

Skalany slung a pillow at him, and he ducked. Caine moved the glass to the table out of the doctor's reach.

"Don't waste it on me, detective," Korack said defensively, looking from one to the other. "I'll be back to see you later." He retreated out of the room.

Caine looked after him, then back at Skalany's angry face. He picked up the pillow and handed it back to her, then picked up the straw in the glass of water by the bed. "Maybe, if you take this...they will release you this afternoon?" he said hopefully. "We can ask...Dr. Sanbourin...when she comes in tonight."

She knew he meant well, but right then, all she wanted to do was to kill the doctor, then leave. She sank back on the pillows, and took the glass.

"Where.." she mumbled, tapping a fingertip on the plastic.

"There was a second glass in the cupboard," he replied moving over to the chair against one wall.

She sipped it gingerly, then her expression brightened. "Good!"

"Of course," he said reproachfully. "I would never...purposely make the medicine...taste bad. Except...for for Peter."

She giggled, winced, then took another larger sip as he began to play the flute.

It was took ten minutes before she fell asleep.

  
Strenlich looked out of the window of Welch's small office in the Consulate. The window overlooked the back of the building where a chauffeur, with his shirt-sleeves rolled up, was cleaning a black limousine. Sweat made his shirt stick as the sun had reached its midday height and the smog hanging over the city encased it in a blanket of foul air.

The Chief turned from the window to examine the graduate degrees, one from Cambridge, the other from the University of Cape Town which were proudly displayed on the wall. Both were dated in the late 1980s. Sitting behind Welch's desk, on the window ledge, were several photographs encased in wood frames. One was a man in uniform, a woman, probably his wife, and a young Welch, also in a uniform. Strenlich studied that photograph, then one eyebrow went up. He was an ex-Marine and knew the ranks of the British service. If they were the same in South Africa, then Welch's father was a high-ranking officer. From the expression on Welch's face, he was more than slightly embarrassed by the proud expression on his father's face.

The next photo had been taken later. Welch, his arm around a pretty girl of about his age next to him, leaned against an obscenely fat tree trunk while branches made a tangle against the blue sky behind them. His mutilated hand was bandaged. He looked far happier than he had in the other photograph.

The other photos were of an official nature. Welch in the backdrop of some official occasion, Welch holding up a certificate, and others. Strenlich was struck with the fact that Welch had no other pictures of his military service or of his father.

He looked around the room. Besides the ubiquitous picture of Nelson Mandela that hung in every office Strenlich had passed, the only other prints were of the African landscape with antelopes bounding out of the brush, cheetahs running, or a herd of elephants. The books sitting on the sideboard were a mixture of mysteries and non-fiction. The magazines stacked next to them ranged from the New Yorker to some in Afrikaans with month-old dates.

"Chief Strenlich?" Welch called apologetically as he entered, several message slips in his hands. "I'm sorry to be late. Have they offered you tea or coffee?"

"Yes, thank you," Strenlich said, turning to face the attache. He damped down his distrust of the man. So far, Welch hadn't done anything except ask for the help of the police. The chief remembered Simms' advice; no matter what had happened in the past in that foreign country, it was the here-and-now that he had to deal with. "I decided no."

"As you please," Welch commented, sitting down behind his desk. He dropped the slips in an untidy heap on one corner. "I've been looking over the Colonel's arrangements in preparation for your visit. Here is your copy." He handed over a file.  
Strenlich began reading as Welch dealt with some of the paperwork. Finally, he looked up. "This is very complete," the chief admitted. "It would appear that he took care of every eventuality."

"Except his disappearance," Welch said ruefully. "I have already alerted my staff here to expect changes, and spoke with airport security. Then I spoke with the airport public relations people..." He rolled his eyes.

Strenlich smiled primly, though he relaxed. The man had a sense of humor after all. "I take it that they don't approve of your press conference."

"You are correct there," Welch acknowledged. "Still, it will happen as we've planned."

"So, everything is on schedule?" Strenlich asked.

"Unless you see a place where the security is flawed?"

Strenlich shook his head and closed the file. "I don't. Since this is so complete, I suggest that we add another layer of security to it."

Welch looked puzzled. "Excuse me?"

"I'll have my detectives work the crowds to make sure that nothing happens," Strenlich suggested. "We get extra police on duty, and we blanket the area. Not enough to suggest that there is something wrong, but enough to do our job."

"You will have to pull people from the search for Colonel Keetman?" Welch asked hesitantly.

The other man nodded reluctantly. "That's right. But, to be honest, Mr. Welch, he's probably dead by now."

Welch flinched. "You are brutally honest, chief."

"You were a military man," Strenlich countered. "I was a Marine. What do you think the odds are that he is alive?"

"I wasn't in the service very long," Welch admitted. "But I know the odds are poor. He isn't dead, though, until we have a body."

"Have you spoken with his wife?" asked Strenlich, remembering the mysterious Mrs. Keetman who had come to the precinct, and turned out to be an imposter. Was this Colonel actually married to someone?

Welch looked uncomfortable. "I spent last night on the telephone with my office. They have taken over the task of contacting Mrs. Keetman."

Strenlich leaned forward. "Have they told her?"

"Told her what? All we can say is that he's missing," Welch said defensively. "I believe they have contacted her and her son, Robert."

"Robert?"

"Yes, he's a park ranger in Namibia. The Colonel was talking about him in this office just a few days ago." Welch grimaced at the memory. "We joked that the son was following in his father's footsteps."

"The Colonel was in Namibia?"

"During the war. Years ago." The young man unconsciously looked at his mutilated hand, then folded it.

Strenlich followed his gaze. "That come from battle?"

"From not following orders too clearly," Welch said wryly. "I was disabling a land mine and it went badly."

Strenlich felt a pang of sympathy. "You're lucky to still have a hand, Mr. Welch."

"If it wasn't for Mrs. Keetman, I wouldn't," Welch said with a slightly vague look on his face as if some other thought had just occurred to him. "Are we done here, Chief?"

Strenlich handed back the folder. "Yes, I think so. I'll add the security in case something goes wrong."

"Mr. Daterman at the bank is also interested in knowing what is planned," Welch suggested. He passed over a note with Daterman's phone number on it.

"He set up the security at the bank then?" Strenlich asked.

"Yes."

"Your Colonel didn't have anything to do with it?"

Welch shook his head. "I believe he looked over the plans, but didn't make any suggestions. Daterman and his people seem to be in control there."

"Good. One less thing to worry about," Strenlich commented. "I will be in touch, Mr. Welch."

The man rose and held out his hand. "I do hope that you find the Colonel before this happens, Chief."

"Is he a personal friend?" Strenlich asked.

Welch let his hand sink to the desk. "In many ways, yes, he is. He is also a personal friend of Minister Otaya's. They served together for years before the last election and Mr. Otaya's entry into the government."

Strenlich shook his head, puzzled. "Served together? You'll have to excuse my ignorance, Mr. Welch, but..."

"Black and white serving together?" Welch asked with a spiritless smile. "There was a very powerful underground undermining the former government, Chief Strenlich. I know that Mr. Otaya was a member of it."

"Was the Colonel?" Strenlich persisted "Could this be some kind of perverse way of someone getting back at him?"

Welch shrugged. "I wouldn't know, Chief Strenlich. The Colonel avoided discussing it. You will have to draw your own conclusions."

"I'll set my best man on that," Strenlich replied firmly. Kermit would probably be able to find the information, even if he had to hack into the South African computers. If the country had them. Strenlich squelched his bias. After all, South Africa had nuclear weapons. They would have computers for Kermit to break into. "I'll be in touch, Mr. Welch. If you find out anything more, please call me at the precinct."

"Thank you, Chief," said Welch with evident relief. He escorted him to the door. "I believe my secretary can show you the way out."

Strenlich smiled at the pretty girl who was sitting at her terminal. She smiled back and stood up. "Be glad to, sir."

Welch watched him leave, then went back in his office wearing a troubled expression. He had remembered something important, something that had been overlooked in the past twenty-four hours. Danielle Keetman and her daughters were scheduled to arrive the same day as Otaya. He hoped his father had talked her into cancelling her trip until the situation was settled.

  
The basement was lit only by the ray of sunshine that flowed through the dingy window. It illuminated the scene inside in merciless detail.  
Hsi put several coals into the brazier and put the poker on to heat. The room was stuffy and smelled foul despite the broken window. He had walked around the school an hour before and found that barely any smell emanated outside and that the window looked intact at a distance. That was all that mattered to Hsi. He knew from past experience that he wouldn't be here much longer before Keetman broke under torture, and then it was just a matter of disposing of the body whenever Steshka gave the word.

He stretched his hands above his head and cracked all his knuckles, then stretched them to each side. "I'm sure you'd like to be doing this, Colonel," he said in mild amusement. "How are you feeling?"

Keetman's eyelids fluttered, but he said nothing as he sagged in his bonds.

"Time to wake up, Colonel," Hsi coaxed, taking up the almost-empty bottle of sodium pentothal. He filled the needle with the remainder and injected it.

Keetman raised his head, his eyelids half-closed. "Go...to hell," he said in a dry croak.

Hsi looked at the can of gasoline that sat nearby. "That's where you're going, Colonel. So, what are your arrangements for the diamonds?"

The bound man clenched his jaw, but it was no use. He went slack. "Diamonds..."

"The diamond shipment that you were here to take care of," Hsi gently coaxed. "When does it arrive?"

"Thursday...day," Keetman whispered hoarsely.

"Yes, that we know from other sources, Colonel," said Hsi triumphantly. "How is it coming?"

"Carried..."

"Who is bringing it in?"

Keetman tried to resist, but it was no use. "Otaya's bringing...it. From...London. I was supposed...to meet him and escort...them to the bank."

Hsi nodded his head in triumph and stood up. "That's what I needed from you, Colonel. You can go to sleep now."

Keetman's head sagged on his chest. "Danielle..."

"What?" Hsi knelt down beside the man. "Who?"

"Danielle...the girls."

"Your family?"

"Coming in...with..."

"They're coming in with the minister?" Hsi asked eagerly. "Part of the party?"

Keetman whispered, "British Airways...later."

Hsi laughed triumphantly as he stood. "I'm sure Steshka will be interested in this information, Colonel. He already has your son under surveillance."

Keetman didn't move. His breathing sounded harsh.

Hsi flipped open his cellular phone and dialed.

  
By two o'clock, Peter was sweltering in his tailored suit. He wondered how Rykker, standing beside him in his usual black, stood the heat.

He was about to ask how he did it when a yellow taxi drove up. "Mr. Rykker?" the driver asked.

"Yes?" Rykker said with his usual urbane suspicion.

"Mr. Steshka asked me to pick you and your friend up. He said you'd be waiting?" the man inquired politely.

Rykker's eyes narrowed for a second, then he shrugged to Peter. "If this is the way he wants it, then that's how we play it," he said in an undertone.

"I wonder why he didn't send his friend, Hsi, or that huge bodyguard," Peter whispered.

"Don't be ridiculous, Peter," Rykker said sharply. "You know where he probably is."

Peter grimaced. If Hsi wasn't with Steshka when they arrived, then he was probably with Keetman. "You're right."

The driver's face was thin and lantern-jawed with a perpetual shadow on the cheeks. It didn't match the picture on the cab company tag above him.

Peter hoped that no one noticed the slight lump in his lapel. Blake had used the best in his arsenal of transmitters, and Peter only hoped that it was already transmitting his position. There had been a half-hour of debate before Peter had told them he wasn't going to wear a tape. From what he knew of Steshka, he didn't want to get caught with a recorder taped to him anywhere. Kermit had solved the problem stating flatly that he would find a spot to use the directional antenna and record whatever he could hear. No one had tried to contradict him, though Strenlich and Simms looked concerned.  
Kermit was taking this all too personally, Peter thought, his gaze on the road. Not just the incident with the fake Danielle, but the kidnapping and all the rest. Peter had read the Keetman report and knew why the ex-mercenary was obsessed with the case, but it was starting to interfere with his clear thinking. The former mercenary was so tense that Peter doubted that he slept well, when he did sleep.

They rode in silence for a half-hour. Their path took them out of the city and across the suburbs before they turned to the beach area. Finally they turned onto the sandy soil path where tall cattails waved among small prickly pears and huge rocks poked through the dirt on each side. After a half-mile the car turned and paralleled the bank till it reached a cleared spot. Looking back, Peter saw the path was virtually invisible among the waving grasses.

A table with three chairs had been placed so it had a clear view of the city before it. It was shaded by netting which draped the area except the side facing the city. Several smoking pots cornered the cleared area. As soon as Peter got out of the cab, he could smell mosquito punks burning.

"We dine al fresco," Rykker murmured, climbing out beside him.

"I hope we don't have the federal government down on us for polluting a wetland," Peter replied, looking around.

"The Feds are the least of our worries."

The huge bodyguard was at least familiar to Peter. He had seen him lurking behind Steshka's shoulder at the Mercenary Ball. The man waited till they had nearly reached the tent, then held out his hands. Rykker and Peter stopped and the man patted them down, then waved them on.

Rykker wore a half-smile as he went inside. "Mr. Steshka?"

The man at the table rose to greet them. "Mr. Rykker. And his friend. I'm charmed."

Peter realized in an appalled second that he had met this man at the precinct the night of the Mercenaries' Ball. They had been on opposite paths on the stairs. Silently he prayed that Steshka didn't remember him, or, if he did, that he assumed Peter was another guest brought in for questioning.

The table held several crystal glasses and a bottle wine, as well as Chinese dishes holding pistachio nuts and delicate cookies.  
Steshka reseated himself in the folding chair that offered the best view of the city, his hands wrapped around a filled glass.

"The pleasure is ours," Rykker said urbanely, sitting down on the chair to the right. Peter, after the briefest of hesitations, sat down on the left side of the table. He could hear the bodyguard breathing behind him.

"This is Mr. Caine."

"Your assistant?"

"My partner in this," Rykker commented smoothly.

"A drink for my friends. Wine?" Steshka asked, his eyes watching Peter like a hawk.

"I prefer vodka," Peter said rashly, trying not to be dominated by the Russian.

"What's the champagne for?" Rykker asked. He saw a bottle sitting in a ice bucket next to one of the pots.

"A special occasion," Steshka said with the glint of anticipation in his eyes. "I'm hoping to hear about the death of a friend."

"The death of a friend? Usually people don't celebrate," Peter commented.

Steshka shrugged. "A personal matter. Rykker says you have news of Blaisdell?"

Peter didn't let himself tense. He sank into his role of a thug. "Yes."

"The cost of the information is high," Rykker cut in, sipping on his wine. "This is an excellent vintage. My congratulations."

"Thank you. What is your price, Mr. Caine?"

"What are you offering, Mr. Steshka?" Peter asked, unmoving.

Steshka's lips quirked up in a faint smile. "A share of the profits?"

"Profits?" Peter inquired.

"I am planning to expand my operations to this city and this country, Mr. Caine," Steshka replied. "That will mean vast profits in the future."

"Your operations include home break-ins, extortion, theft and prostitution, correct?" Rykker put in smoothly. "I think you will find that the people in this city will have a slight problem with that."

Steshka shrugged. "The police force is incompetent," he said casually. "All police forces are. This city will pay well for protection."

"From you?" Peter asked.

"From anything I wish," Steshka acknowledged. "If it is true that Blaisdell is gone, then the field is wide open."

"If you don't mind me being indelicate, how are you funding this?" Rykker asked him. "I know the state of your business in Zimbabwe -- "

"Ah, don't worry about that," Steshka bragged. "I will shortly have paid off my creditors. I have an operation in order right now that will ensure continued profitability. Besides, that is an indulgence. As you know, Rykker, my operations are in other countries than Zimbabwe."

"How can you be profitable with that mine if you continue to sell your diamonds outside the cartel?" Rykker inquired. "They have tried to buy out your holdings for years now."

"Their attempts to keep up their inflated diamond prices will fail in the long run," Steshka said. "My diamonds are of interest to other investors who don't feel like paying those prices."

"That attitude will get you killed," Rykker said bluntly. "Doesn't the cartel have ways of persuasion that have included bullets in the past?"

"An attack?" Steshka raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I've chased them off the land several times."

"Wasn't that the beef with that South African, Keetman?" Rykker said without batting an eyelash. Peter risked a glance at him. "He led a force onto the mine land -- "

"Something about my using the kaffirs as slave labor," Steshka said with a shrug of his shoulders. "As if they hadn't been used that way for decades in South Africa. He was such a nuisance that I hired a very prominent mercenary to kill him, remember?"

Rykker smiled thinly. "An unfortunate mission. One of few failures."

"For all involved. Didn't the Keetman woman put her son through prep school on your money, Rykker?"

"On your money, Steshka," Rykker murmured.

Steshka's hand tightened on his glass. "I have finally taken care of Keetman and his long nose."

Peter felt a chill go down his spine. "Did you kill him?" he asked as casually as he could. Reaching for the glass, he sipped on the wine to hide his expression.

"That's none of your business, Mr. Caine," Steshka shot back. "What about Blaisdell?"

"Captain Blaisdell has retired," Peter said clearly. "He will not be returning to active duty in any official capacity. That includes being a mercenary."

"So, he is gone for good, then? He won't interfere with anything I do?" Steshka leaned forward, avidly watching Peter, who was repulsed. "How about his family?"

"Family?" Rykker questioned impassively.

"His family. What did they know about his mercenary work? They have inherited his profits. Is anyone following in his footsteps?"

"Not every family follows in their father's footsteps," Rykker said with a shrug. "Blaisdell had no son, and his daughters don't seem inclined to go mercenary."

"Only girls, eh? What did I read in that file I got on the esteemed captain -- his wife is blind. She's not a threat to me, and then there are only girls."

Steshka shook his head in puzzlement. "Funny how well Blaisdell cleaned up his reputation. You'd have never thought he was as cold-blooded as I am."

"Not really," Rykker commented. "Not everyone puts human heads on the front of their Land Rovers as hood ornaments."

"It had the appropriate effect on the natives." Steshka settled back in his chair.

"But there are others out there who are sniffing around," Peter said stolidly. "Local men."

"I've already looked at the ones in Chinatown. I can take care of them," Steshka said with lazy contempt. "They're poor stuff."

Peter could just imagine what Bon Bon Hai would have thought of that statement. It might even be worth it let these two fight it out. Whatever remained could be locked in jail without a key.

"The information is worth it," Steshka said abruptly. "So, what shall I pay for it?"

Rykker held up his glass and stared at the city. "I think we'd prefer something more tangible than empty promises?"

Steshka laughed. "A bit of the present versus a larger slice of the future? What kind of mercenaries are you?"

Peter smiled thinly. "Ill-paid ones."

A cellular phone went off, startling both Peter and Rykker. The bodyguard picked up the compact device up, flipping it open. He held it beside

Steshka's ear as the man sipped on his champagne.

Peter watched the expressions that flitted across his face. Exultation and raw pleasure, the look of a man who had just triumphed over his enemies. He almost looked giddy. "Ah good, very good. Get all the details and then clean up. Report to me. Good work, Hsi." A click came from the phone and the bodyguard folded it up, stowing it away in an inner pocket.

"Gentlemen, let's drink a toast!" Steshka said enthusiastically. "I have finally gotten exactly what I wanted."

Rykker stared at the man, his expression unchanging. "What was that?"

"The details," Steshka said with a hiss. "Pity Blaisdell with only girls to carry on his lineage. A son -- "

"Keetman has a son," Peter cut in unexpectedly, earning a glare from Rykker. "He's still alive."

Steshka's eyes narrowed as he stared intently at Peter. "What do you know about Keetman?"

"I know about Blaisdell," Peter said flatly, leaning forward. "I know about Keetman. Keetman came to town to see Blaisdell, so I took the time to look up who he was."

"You were at the Ball!" Steshka said with a sudden start of recognition. "Why?"

"Looking for business," Peter replied airily. "So, what about Keetman's son?"

Steshka shrugged, his narrow shoulders barely moving under the tailored suit. "The point will be moot shortly. Are you sure you wouldn't prefer a slice of future profits, Mr. Caine?"

Peter realized with growing horror, and out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the same realization in Rykker's eyes, that what they had heard was a death sentence being passed on Keetman. Steshka wouldn't come out and say it clearly, but the meaning was clear.

"Now," Rykker said after Peter didn't reply.

Steshka reached up, and pulled the earring out of his lobe. "Fair enough. Will this do?" He tossed it on the lace tablecloth in front of Peter.

Peter stared at the five stones that glittered in the sunlight sifting through the netting. A strand of Steshka's hair was still wound in one prong. He felt revolted.

Rykker saved the situation by reaching forward and picking up the earring. "That will do, Steshka." He put it in an inner pocket.

The Russian laughed. "Make sure, Mr. Caine, that Rykker gives you your cut."

Peter picked up his glass and raised it in a toast. "To the future, Mr. Steshka."

Rykker raised his glass while Steshka took up the third. "A profitable future."

Steshka nodded his head. "The future." He chugged the rest of the champagne, then threw the glass in a high arch into the bay. The others followed suit. "Teng, bring out the rest of the glasses. Enjoy the rest of the bottle, gentlemen," Steshka said with a broad smile. The bodyguard obeyed, reaching into a wicker basket and putting the fresh crystal on the table.

"You're leaving us?" Peter asked.

"I have other plans for tonight," Steshka replied with a knowing smile. "The local men have invited me to dinner."

"Who's your taste-tester?" Rykker asked, not moving in his chair.

Steshka chuckled as he stood. "I have a cast-iron stomach and good instincts. Besides, they have promised me other pleasures. Good afternoon, gentlemen."

"What about our ride back to the city?" Peter asked, realizing that the only car was the yellow taxi.

"I'm afraid you'll have to walk," Steshka said with a smug smile. "Something to work off the champagne. Good doing business with you again, Rykker. Mr. Caine, I'm sure we'll meet again."

"I don't doubt it for a second," Peter said with a twisted grin. He and Rykker watched Steshka drive off with Teng in the cab. The cattails waved as they drove into the brush.

"Did you get what you wanted?," Rykker asked.

"All he made were vague threats," Peter said in disgust. "He didn't tell us where Keetman is. What was all that about sons?"

"Male progeny carry on the family business. I do hope that the South Africans are protecting Keetman's children," Rykker said uneasily. "Steshka has no qualms about killing them."

"Strenlich told me just before I left that the South Africans are in touch with Mrs. Keetman. Thanks for the help, Rykker."

The mercenary smiled grimly. "I'll be around, Peter. This is too good a show to miss."

"Sticking around to pick up the pieces?" Peter asked seriously as they left the tent and the smoking pots. The road back was rough and pitted with potholes.

"The mercenary world is pure social Darwinism, Peter. Survival of the fittest." Rykker glanced at him. "I would lay money on Kermit Griffin and the others in your office over Steshka any time."

Peter flushed with pleasure. "I'll pass along the compliment."

"Is it a compliment? Remind Griffin that to play at this level, he has to become what he left behind when he found refuge with Blaisdell," Rykker said with a even flat tone. "Steshka hasn't been tamed, Peter. He still believes that he can get away with anything. You may have to meet him on that level."

Peter nodded. "I'll pass that along." He pulled off his jacket and folded it over his arm after rolling up his sleeves.

They walked along in silence till they reached the main road beyond the sandbar and cattails. A bus stop sat forlornly to one side, its schedule flapping in the wind.

Rykker squinted at it, then looked at his watch. "My ride should be here in two minutes?"

"You're taking the bus? Kermit should be along in a second -- "

The mercenary shot him a reproachful look. "I don't think that riding with a policeman would do anything for my image."

Peter grinned. "True. Well, look here!

A large city bus roared out of the distance, the heat magnifying its sound. It came to a stop in front of them, and the door opened.

"I'll be in touch," Rykker said, climbing aboard. The driver glanced in surprise at Peter who shook his head, then closed the door, and drove off in a cloud of exhaust.

  
Two young boys kicked the soccer ball on the abandoned basketball court of the old school building. One kick sent the ball flying across the parched grass and against the lower window of the building. They heard the tinkle of breaking glass.

"Oh, geeze, Billy, you broke it!" the younger of the two said in horror. His face, under the backwards baseball cap, went white under the liberal sprinkling of freckles.

Billy, older by a year, frowned at his brother. "I didn't break it, Jake! It was already broken. "

"I heard it break," Jake argued, staring at the window. "What's down there, Billy?"

"Down there?" Billy hesitated not wanting to show ignorance in the face of his sibling. "It's just the basement."

"You think that's where the teachers keep the rack?" Jake questioned ghoulishly.

"Naw...that's where they take the ones who miss summer school and beat them," Billy shot back, knowing that Jake had missed two sessions with a cold.

His brother looked panicked for a second, then shot him a look of disbelief. "I don't believe it. I wanna see what's down there." He ran across the concrete towards the school.

"Awgh, geeze, get back here," Billy called in disgust, then followed Jake up to the window.

The small boy crouched down by the cracked glass and peered inside through the wire mesh that covered it inside. His jaw dropped.

"What'ja see?" Billy asked coming up. "Jake?"

His brother turned, his eyes wide with excitement. "Billy, there's someone in there."

"Oh, come on," said his friend, shoving him to one side so he could look. "It's probably just a -- Man, oh, man! There is some guy down there!"

"DO you think he's dead?" Jake questioned. "I mean, Billy,..."

"Hey, mister!" Billy yelled through the broken glass. "Hey!"

The man, lying against the water pipes, his hands bound above him and legs wound in duct tape, didn't move if he heard them.

"I smell smoke," Jake exclaimed. "Like a barbecue or somethin'. It's coming from in there!"

They froze as a door opened, its light falling on the bound man, and a tall thin man came into their view. He didn't look up at the window, but kicked the prisoner's feet, and got no response. He knelt by the body and felt for a pulse, then nodded and rose, looking around. The boys could see his face clearly as he went over to a gasoline can and picked it up. It must have been fairly full from the way it sloshed.

Billy pulled at his brother's jacket and they retreated, terrified by what they had seen. "We'd better get someone fast," Billy whispered.

"A cop," Jake agreed. "We gotta get the cops at the big police building a couple of blocks from here."

"Yeah, if we don't see one of them around before that," Billy agreed, for once in complete agreement with his brother. "Run!"

They tore across the school yard heading for the police station. Their ball was abandoned on the court.

  
Peter coughed, then settled back on the wooden seat in the bus stop. He looked at his watch. The interview had taken longer than he thought it would and the afternoon was passing fast.

Finally, a quarter-hour later, a green Corvair drove up slowly and stopped. "Hey, want a ride?" Kermit asked tersely. His eyes were hidden behind the green shades, but his right hand beat a tattoo on the wheel as Peter climbed in.

Peter narrowly avoided sitting on Blake's recording equipment. "Did you hear everything?"

"I had the satellite dish on you the whole time," Kermit stated brusquely. "And I got both sides of the cellular conversation. So, Keetman's dead?"

"Steshka gave the order, yeah. Whether or not he's dead, I don't know." Peter realized that he was being too hopeful.

"He won't get away with this, Peter," Kermit said menacingly. "I won't let him."

"Don't do anything stupid, Kermit," Peter replied hard. "Don't be blinded -- "

"Blinded!" Kermit said savagely. "This man has had his thugs beat up on our detectives, taken one of our tourists and killed him, and is planning to rape the city. We have to -- "

"Killing him won't bring back Keetman," Peter put bluntly. "What's the problem, Kermit? You're making this personal."

"It's none of your business," Kermit said shortly.

"Isn't it?" Peter hazarded, then saw with satisfaction that he had hit something. "Did it have something to do with Blaisdell and that raid?"

Kermit drove silently for several minutes. "Peter, Blaisdell never talked about Keetman, did he?"

Peter shook his head. "I had never heard the name before Danielle--Carla walked into the office."

Kermit flicked him a glance. "Blaisdell paid a price for getting us out of Angola, Peter. He still owes Keetman a debt."

"A debt?" Peter asked in disbelief. "Blaisdell's gone."

"But the debt remains," Kermit said sardonically. "We've failed -- I've failed the captain and Keetman if Keetman's dead. I hate unpaid debts."

The car hit the outskirts of the city and headed for the precinct building. Peter had a dawning understanding of what was eating his friend. This was a personal matter for Kermit on several levels. "Keetman also saved your life in that raid."

"I owe him doubly," his friend grated out.

"Blaisdell's debt is partly mine," Peter suggested gently watching Kermit's face. "I'm his foster son."

The car swerved and made an abrupt right turn into the precinct's parking lot. "Not in the mercenary field," Kermit said in a granite tone. "Let's report to Captain Simms."

  
A full-blown headache wound up from the back of Broderick's head to his temples. He chalked it up to too many days of the Keetman search and increasing tension in dealing with an office where everyone was working on just one case, leaving the uniformed police force to catch the rest of the bad guys. He had spent over half the day there taking information down and supervising the other depositions, and he was ready to just go home and drink beer in front of the television.

He picked up his jacket and slid it on, then looked around the empty front office.

Almost empty. If it hadn't been for the bill of the baseball cap, he would have missed the small boys standing in front of the desk.

"Can I help you?" he asked using his most imposing voice. "Out a little late, aren't you, boys?"

The smaller of the two stared at him with a terrified expression and open mouth, while the other one looked scared. Then he licked his lips and stared the tall officer in the eye. "My name's Billy Aster, and this here's my brother, Jake. We gotta talk to someone!"

Broderick relented. Scaring small children was not part of his job description. "Can I help you, boys?" he asked in a gentler tone, smiling at Jake.  
Jake looked at Billy, then back at Broderick. "Um, yeah, un..."

"We found a body," Billy chirped up, expecting, from his expression, to be disbelieved. "And there's some guy there with it, and he's got a gasoline can."

For a second, Broderick didn't believe him, then gave it a second chance. The boys' faces looked too honestly horrified to be telling a lie. "A body? How did you find this body?"

"Billy broke a window," Jake blurted out.

"He doesn't wantta hear that," Billy mumbled, his face going red.

"The ball hit it and we heard it break, so we went over to check, and there was, like, this guy in the basement all tied up," Jake said with a rush. "I mean he's all tied up to the pipes. It's like one of those horror movies, you know."

Broderick didn't believe it for a second. "How'd you see him all tied up?"

"The emergency light was on above his head and he was all red," Billy said. "It's true, officer..."

"Sergeant Broderick," he replied, realizing that whatever the boys had seen had to be investigated whether or not he was on or off duty. Of course, he could just dump it on the new desk sergeant. Looking into the boys' eyes, he knew he couldn't do that to this pair of young men. He'd lose what little respect they had for him. "All right, I'll come with you and we'll look at this."

They looked instantly relieved. "Cool!" shot Jake, looking cheerful. Beside him, Billy looked a little more defensive but kept silent.  
Broderick exchanged meaningful glances with the new officer, Clancy, who was trying not to laugh, and came around the desk, settling his uniform hat on his head. "Now, show me where this body is."

"Can we ride in the squad car?" Billy said eagerly. "It's about ten blocks from here. We ran as fast as we could -- "

"With all the lights on?" Jake questioned.

"Patrol car, yes. Lights, no," Broderick said tolerantly. "Clancy, I'll take one of the cars out."

"Cool, Sergeant!" Clancy replied, then grinned at his dour expression. "I'll assign it to you."

Broderick waved toward the door. "Lead on, boys."

  
Hsi looked at the bound man lit by the light of the emergency light. He looked angry as he nudged one of the bare feet. "Keetman!"

Keetman didn't move. His breathing was barely perceptible in the rise and fall of his chest.

"Damn it all," Hsi said with quiet menace. "I wanted you awake." He stepped back and Keetman's head drooped back to its original position. His breathing didn't change.

Hsi shrugged. He had spent a half-hour trying to revive Keetman, but the drugs and torture had taken their toll.

He picked up the gasoline can and began to shake the contents around the basement, being careful not to get it on himself or near the brazier that he had put beside the door to upstairs. He saturated Keetman's half-naked body. The slippery liquid ran over the tanned face and parted lips, and Keetman suddenly licked them. He choked, grimacing at the poisonous taste.

"You are awake," Hsi said cheerfully, putting down the can and taking up the timer. Setting it for fifteen minutes, he set it in the gasoline right below Keetman's feet, where it ticked quietly.

Keetman opened his eyes and saw what was happening. His lips parted.

"No calling for help," Hsi reprimanded him. Pulling out the tie that had gone with Keetman's tuxedo, he tip-toed distastefully into the gasoline and jammed it into the man's mouth, tying it tightly behind.

Keetman's eyes closed and he slumped against the wall.

Hsi changed his shoes for a pair of sneakers, then tossed the boots into the gasoline. For a second, he stared with a slight smile at the dazed man, then retreated out of the pungent liquid. "Good night, Colonel." He walked out.

  
Broderick saw an anonymous black sedan parked around the corner of the school as he drove up in the white-and-blue squad car. The boys bounced on the front seat, peering over the dashboard and squabbling over who got to take the mike off the hook. Finally, he took it away from them, and rehung it. "Leave it alone."

"We're there!" Jake said excitedly, hitting Billy as he pointed to the school.

Billy shoved him, and Broderick jammed his foot on the break as Jake slid into him despite the seat belt across his slender middle.

"Now the two of you behave," he ordered sternly, parking the car. "Where is this broken window of yours, Billy?"

"I didn't break it," Billy protested vehemently. "It was broken before the ball hit it."

Broderick shook his head in amusement as they piled out of the car and headed around the building.

"There it is!" Billy said pointing to the lower meshed window. Above them, the red-brick building loomed against the starry sky.

Broderick smelled the gasoline long before he could tell where it came from. He crouched down at the window and used the flashlight in his hand to peer inside.

He stiffened, staring, and his jaw dropped. The boys were right. There was a man tied up in there, gagged, under the red emergency light. Not only that, but, his nose told him the swimming pool around him was gasoline. He let the light play over the inside of the room.

A black box sat in the gasoline, the digital clock glowing red. It was counting down.

"Oh, God, a bomb," Broderick muttered. "Boys, get back to the car!"

"You gonna go in?" Jake asked excitedly.

"Is he dead, sergeant?" Billy questioned more soberly.

"I don't know. We'd better get some help," Broderick said calmly but firmly.

Jake tugged on his arm. "The door's opening!" he said in a loud whisper. "Over there!"

Broderick swiveled to see the side fire door opening. "Boys, get to the car!" he barked, his hand going to his gun. "Get inside!"

The boys' interest in adventure evaporated and they took off toward the patrol car at a sprint.

"Hey!" Broderick bellowed at the shadowy figure. "What are you doing up there!"

The man turned and started shooting a Tec-9. Broderick ran around the edge of the building. The gravel at his feet scattering as the bullets missed him. He pulled out his gun and waited for a slight break in the fire to aim and shoot.

The lights on the top of the patrol car came on with glaring suddenness, shooting light all over the play ground, and the siren went off, shattering the night's calm even more than the guns.

Looking at the car, he saw Billy's face peering over the dash, then ducking as the man fired at the squad car and starred the windshield.

"Billy! Call for backup on the radio!" Broderick yelled at the top of his lungs. He fired at the man who had fired again at the car, and the man reeled against the wall. Broderick ducked as bullets from the Tec-9 hit the red brick around him.

The man headed around the other side of the building, and Broderick hesitated trying to decide whether to go to the boys or go after the gunman.

The roar of an engine put an end to his quandary. The black car came roaring around the corner, scattering gravel. It screeched off down the street where approaching sirens could be heard on the breeze.  
Broderick cautiously stepped around the corner, holding his pistol ready. There was no saying that the man had been alone.

He sidled along the wall till he reached the window, and looked inside again. His eyes widened.  
The man had shifted his position, lifting his face slightly towards the window as if he had heard the noise. As Broderick watched, the head slumped again against his chest.

He had to get him out of there. Even if the bomb wasn't due to go off any time soon, the fumes would kill him.

The sergeant looked over at the two boys, who peeped out the side windows of the squad car. At his gesture, Billy rolled down the window.

"Did you call the police?" Broderick called.

"Yes, sir! They said they were coming," Billy said in a subdued tone. He looked more shocked than Jake, whose high spirits was returning as he bounced on the vinyl seats.

"Tell them to get an ambulance and fire engines!" Broderick said firmly. "Tell them Sergeant Broderick of the 101st needs them immediately. Tell them there's a gasoline spill here!"

"Yes, sir!" Billy snapped back and picked up the mike, nearly strangling Jake who got between him and it.

Broderick cautiously went through the fire door and into the dark building.

He followed the smell of the gasoline down into the basement. He muffled his mouth with his handkerchief.

The gasoline lapped at the door jamb. Looking down at his shoes, he realized that even the nails in them could spark off the volatile liquid. He holstered his gun and removed his shoes. He rolled up his pants legs and tied the handkerchief around his face. Then with one deep suck of the clean air of the hallway, he stepped gingerly into the gasoline.

The timer showed he had only five minutes. Damn. He went over to the man, who was breathing with difficulty.

It took a minute before Broderick could unravel the knots that held the man's arms above his head. "I've got you," Broderick whispered, as the man slumped forward in his arms. Under the layer of slimy gasoline, he saw cuts, burns, and bruising. The man's scruffy beard blurred the lines of his face, but he looked familiar.

Outside, he could hear loud sirens and the wail of fire engines and ambulances as the police converged on the school.

"Let's get the hell out of here," he muttered, then coughed as the fumes hit his throat. He slung the man over his shoulder and ran for the door. He nearly slipped once and went down on one knee, the liquid soaking his pants, then regained his balance. The stairs were another problem. With the knowledge that the timer was still ticking, he ran up them.

The building exploded as he ran out the fire door. He tumbled over the railing that separated the raised stairs from the building. The man fell beyond Broderick to lie in an unmoving heap. Glass sprayed over them both, and sparks ignited the grass. He felt a spurt of pure fear as more sparks floated around him, and landed on his pants, luckily above where the gasoline had soaked.

A team of firemen hauled on his arms. "Move it or you're a torch!" one snarled as they helped him across the dry grassy verge. Glass crunched under his soaked socks and black smoke billowed around them.

"The other guy," Broderick wheezed, and gagged as the smoke caught in his throat.

"We got him," the fireman said confidently looking over Broderick's shoulder. "What's up, Sarge? He looks like a jellied ham. Who is he?"

"Dunno," Broderick whispered. One of the paramedics gave him an oxygen mask and he inhaled the clean air gratefully.

The medics put the man down on the grass and began stripping him of his clothes. They sponged off the gasoline as best they could and tossed the soaked pants and underwear as far as they could, then wrapped the man in a blanket and put him on a gurney. One began an intravenous drip to counteract the obvious dehydration. The woman unfastened the gag, looked at it with distaste, then tossed it away.

Broderick staggered over to the ambulance and looked inside. For the first time he saw the face clearly. It was familiar. Broderick had seen it numerous times that day and the day before. He realized that he had found the man the whole precinct was looking for. "My God," he said with dawning understanding. "I don't believe it!"

"What?" she asked, looking at him. "Got an I.D. on 'im?"

"Yes," Broderick said in a hoarse wheeze. "Name's Alexander Keetman and we've been looking for him for a couple of...days." He coughed. "Call Captain Simms at the 101st and tell her we've got him."

"I'll do that," the woman said, "but you'd better strip first, Sarge."

"What?" Broderick asked startled.

"Gotta get out of those wet clothes," the medic advised. She tossed him a blanket. "Wrap yourself up in that."

Reluctantly, the sergeant unbuttoned his shirt and pants, and discarded them on the pile of other soaked clothing. He pulled off his socks, cringing at the soaked feeling, and tossed them aside, then wrapped the blanket over his underwear.

"Anything else there wet?" she asked with a bold stare.

"No. It's still clean," he retorted, then his ears went red with embarrassment as she howled with laughter. Defiantly, he tossed the edge of the blanket over his shoulder. It looked like a toga. "I'd better ride with you. He's a VIP."

"Get inside then," she ordered, turning back to her patient.

Broderick hesitated, looking over the crowd. "The kids," he said doubtfully.

"I'll take care of them," a familiar voice called from out a cluster of uniforms and firemen. Jody stepped out. She must have been at dinner, judging from the nice tailored shirt and pants she wore with a matching tweed jacket. Her lips twitched as she eyed his unconventional garb. "Did you see anything, Sarge?"

"Not much," he admitted. "A black car, a man -- "

"We saw him," a youthful voice chimed in. Billy pushed his way forward out of the crowd of policemen. "I took down the number on that pad of paper you have in the car!"

"You took down the number, eh?" Broderick asked. He was very conscious of his gasoline-dampened hands, and the smell of gasoline from the clothing nearby.

"I saw the guy's face too," Billy said soberly. "Chinese guy."

"Do you think you could identify him?" Jody cut in with a trace of urgency. "I mean, could you find him in a book of mug shots?"

"Back at the station? Sure," Billy said, suspiciously eyeing her. "But I gotta call my Mom. She'll be worried about us." He glanced at his younger brother who was hopping from foot to foot as he watched.

"Tell you what. You go down and look through the books, and maybe we'll give you a ride home in one of the squad cars," Broderick said in a tired tone. "Going to put out the APB on the car?" he asked Jody.

"Of course," she replied.

"Can we ride with the lights on?" Jake piped up hopefully.

Jody looked around at the burning building, the fire engines pouring water on the flames, causing billows of steam, the flashing blue-and-white lights of the police cars. "Haven't you had enough of that?" she inquired dryly.

The boys ignored her comment. They watched Broderick hopefully.

"Not on the way home," Broderick said with a firmly controlled smile. "Maybe Detective Powell will put hers on if you ask her nicely."

Jody shot him a dirty look.

Jake looked at her distrustfully. "She doesn't look like a policeman."

Jody stared at him, biting back a grin, "And what does a policeman look like?"

"Like him!" Jake said pointing at Broderick, who smirked and spread his hands, then grabbed for the edge of the blanket as it slipped.

"Potential academy bait here," Jody said in an undertone. "Boys, you can ride with me in the Chevy."

"A neat car!" Jake commented, shooting her an enthusiastic smile. "With the red light?" he added hopefully.

"No siren. Just the light," she gave in with false reluctance. She met Broderick's eyes with hidden amusement.

Billy shifted feet. "I gotta call my Mom. She'll be worried."

"Call her from the station," Broderick suggested, feeling the force of his headache coming back. "Boys, you saved me and that man tonight. You did good. Real good!" They squirmed under his compliment. "Now, get moving, all three of you," Broderick concluded briskly, eying Jody. who laughed.

Jody grinned. "All right. Come on, boys."

Broderick watched the trio walked away, Jake announcing that he was going to be a policeman when he grew up, and blow things up. Jody's reply was lost in the tumult.

"Sarge, you still want to go to the hospital with him?" the paramedic asked after coming back from loading Keetman into the back of the ambulance.

"You need to get your feet checked for glass. Not the best stuff to be walkin' around in."

"Good idea," Broderick agreed, climbing inside. "Besides, I don't think he should be left alone from now on."

"Some kind of a crook, eh?" the paramedic said.

"Just the opposite."

A black sedan unobtrusively trailed the ambulance as it headed for the hospital with its lights flashing and siren wailing.

  
Skalany stared stubbornly at Dr. Sanbourin who was reading the medical chart. Caine, from his perch on the windowsill, kept playing the flute and watching the pair of them.

Finally, the detective tapped on the metal dinner tray. "I...can go?" she mumbled out.

Sanbourin frowned. "I don't understand why he was keeping you in," she said honestly. "It looks like you'll be eating soup with that broken jaw, but other than that, you just have bruises. I'll sign off on this and you can get up and dressed, detective. You'll have to take some painkillers and come back for treatment but you don't need to be taking up a bed."

Skalany glanced triumphantly at Caine, who was smiling gravely. "Thanks..."

Caine spread his hands deprecatingly. "It was nothing. I thought Dr. Sanbourin could help," he said gently.

"Why don't we leave you to dress?" Sanbourin suggested with an amused smile. "I've got a patient to show you, Caine, down the hall if you don't mind."

"The honor is mine," Caine replied, putting his flute away. "I...will be back, Mary Margaret."

She gave him a thumbs-up and pushed away the tray.

Outside, Sanbourin led the way down the hall towards the front desk. Caine noticed the sudden lights of an ambulance coming up outside, the flashing colors painting the emergency room down the hall in streaks of yellow and blue.

"What's happening?" Sanbourin asked, her head snapping around.

The doors crashed open and a uniformed policeman came in, calling, "Put out the cigarettes, folks, we got a gasoline spill problem here!" The intern who had just picked up his lighter to go outside for a smoke put it hastily in his pocket. The paramedics rolled in the prone body of a man on a crash cart, trailing the distinct smell of gasoline behind them.

"My God!" Sanbourin said coming up to the body after it had been wheeled into one of the emergency rooms. "What the hell happened to him?"

"Better ask the cop," the paramedic said stepping back. "Apparently someone was trying to use him as a night light."

"What cop?" she asked, stepping out of the way as the emergency room crew took over.

"That one," the man said, pointing to the barefooted officer wrapped in a blanket toga over his underwear. He was directed to another of the rooms where one of the nurses began to examine his cut feet.

"Sergeant Broderick," Caine called authoritatively as he came up beside him. "Is that Colonel Keetman?"

"It sure is," Broderick agreed, wincing as the nurse pulled out a tiny sliver of glass. "I'll have to call in once they've finished this," he added, flinching as the nurse put his feet in a bowl of water to help get the layer of gasoline off him.

"He is whom?" Dr. Sanbourin asked coming up to then. "Do you have a name?"

"Alexander Keetman. A South African military officer," Broderick replied. "Half the city's been looking for him."

"Why?" she questioned.

"He was... kidnapped," Caine explained. "Now you have him back."

"Will he be okay, doc?" Broderick asked, as the nurse patted dry his feet. She examined them closely, then picked up the iodine.

"From what I'm hearing, if they don't accidentally torch him in ER, he should recover," she said, cocking her head towards the crowd working on the man. They weren't working with the frenetic energy demanded for a terminal case. "I'll have to see what they come up with."

"Yipe! Watch it, okay? That hurt!" Broderick said as the nurse wiped the cuts. She nodded, and dabbed again. He flinched. "Got a phone, doc?"

"In the entry."

Broderick thanked the assistant who had painted his feet red, then limped out to the main reception desk, with Caine following, to where there was a bank of phones against one wall. After reaching for the pocket of his non-existent pants, he dialed the operator and had her put him through to the precinct office.

Caine moved back to where he could oversee what the doctors were doing with Keetman. Attached to machines that showed his respiration and with an intravenous drip in one arm, he looked as if he were just resting -- if you didn't see the burns on his face and chest. The nurses were commenting on the marks and speculating on the causes as they made sure he was breathing clearly. Caine remembered the man who had come to his apartment, the lithe movements and quiet assurance, and felt a pang of guilt for sending him out that night. Perhaps it was not his fault, but he felt as if it was.

Someone touched his arm, and he turned to see Skalany, wearing a dress and sandals, staring at the crowds of people. She raised an eyebrow at him inquiringly and held up her hands in a question.

"They have found... Keetman," he said in a low tone, waving toward the room. Her eyes went wide and she craned her neck at the diminishing crowd.

Behind her, a man came up, his hand in his coat pocket, and Caine's sense of impending danger went off. He raised his head sharply to eye the Asian who was intently watching the crowd in Keetman's room.

Skalany reacted to what she saw in Caine's stance and turned to come face-to-face with the stranger.

The man's eyes widened betrayingly, but her hard blow to his midriff sent him stumbling back into the reception area. One of the assistants screamed as the Tec-9 he had been pulling out flew out of his hand and hit Broderick's shin. The sergeant yelped into the phone, then dropped the receiver.  
Skalany followed up her attack by clobbering the stranger with the local phone book that one doctor had been using seconds before. The man fell to his knees, covering his head with his arms.

Caine grabbed her as Broderick hobbled over to the man who was lying dazed against the wall. "What are you doing.... Mary Margaret?" Caine said bitingly.

She stalked over, dragging Caine with her, and pointed at the asian. "Shiiie." She winced and put her hand on jaw.

"Hsi?" Caine said in astonishment.

Broderick stared at him, then grinned broadly. "You're right! He matches that photo."

Hsi stared without expression at the three standing over him. "I don't know what you are talking about," he finally muttered.

Caine's sensitive nose quivered. He grasped Hsi's right hand, and smelled it. "Gasoline. You were the one....who poured the gasoline."

Hsi shoved hard at him, knocking him a half-step back, but Caine hit him once in the solar plexus, and the man went down in a wheezing heap.  
Broderick looked around and saw the Tec-9 lying beneath a cart of used equipment. A nurse was staring at it as if it were a poisonous snake. He picked it up, and trained it on the man. "Mr. Hsi, I am arresting you for carrying a concealed weapon, and attacking an officer." He began reading him his rights.

Sanbourin walked up and stared at the quartet. "What is going on here?" she asked Caine, who shrugged. "This man," Caine said nodding to Hsi, "did what was done to that man." He waved towards Keetman's cubicle. "I believe the police will be here...soon...to guard Mr. Keetman."

"They're here," Broderick said as two uniformed officers burst in the room, and saluted him. One of the policemen cuffed Hsi who stared malevolently around the room. "I ordered round-the-clock protection on him."

"Someone may try again?" the doctor asked urgently, eying Hsi.

"Yes," Caine said firmly. "His enemy is most persistent."

"Then I'll have him moved to a room that can be easily guarded," she said decisively.

"Call Strenlich at the precinct when you've got it set up and tell him," Broderick suggested. "I'll take him back to the precinct. "Want a ride, Skalany?"

She smiled for a second, then winced, but nodded her head. "Our...bust."

"Your bust," Broderick corrected. "He would have killed us all."

Caine nodded agreement. "I will come...with you."

He and Skalany trailed behind as Broderick and another officer led Hsi out to a patrol car. They accepted a ride in the second police car and soon arrived back at the 101st.

  
Simms, coming out of her office, caught sight of Peter's face as he hung up the phone. "What is it, Detective Caine?"

"They've found Keetman," Peter said with a slowly-growing grin on his face. "And he's alive!"

"ALIVE!" Kermit shot out of his office like a cheetah after prey. "Did you say alive?"

"Yeah, apparently they found him before the timer went off," Peter said. "Broderick pulled him out of a pool of gasoline."

"Broderick?" Both Kermit and Simms were stunned.

Jody came in from the outer room. "Hey, where's all the uniforms? I just got a call from -- "

"Keetman's alive," Kermit cut her off ruthlessly. "Broderick saved his toast. Anymore on that, Peter?"

"He didn't have much time to fill me in because apparently, Skalany just attacked someone with a phone book," Peter said, bemused.

"Phone book?" Simms asked startled. "Is there a full moon or something out there?"

"That would explain the call I got from a squad car," Jody said holding up a torn off message slip. "Broderick says he's bringing in a prisoner and that he needs an interrogation room."

"A prisoner," Kermit questioned sharply moving up to where Peter stood. "The phone book casualty?"

"Did he give a name?" Peter shot back.

Jody's smile grew till it rivaled the cat in Alice In Wonderland. "Some creep called Hsi."

Peter felt the jolt that went through Kermit as he heard that name. He glanced at the computer expert, who looked like he just seen Nirvana. Or his worst enemy tied up in front of him and no witnesses to see what happened next.

"I want to see him," Kermit said with soft menace through clenched teeth.

Simms stared at him in concern. "I don't think that would be a good idea, Detective Griffin."

Kermit's glare, even with the glasses, would have seared through multiple layers of asbestos.

"We want to question him, not take him apart," she continued crisply, meeting his glare fearlessly. "You're taking this all too personally-- "

"Damn right, I am," he cut her off ruthlessly. Peter was absolutely stunned. It looked like Kermit had forgotten he was talking to his superior officer.

"Hsi likes to hurt people. He won't be easy to break, Captain. Hsi comes out of another world."

"Your former world," she cut in crisply.

"And, I know how to handle him," Kermit finished, ignoring her comment.

"How a mercenary handles such a situation isn't how this police department does," she retorted in a biting tone. It cut through the anger that was radiating from the man. He went white. "You're too close to this, Kermit. I'm removing you from the case."

The words reverberated around the room like a cannon fusillade on the Fourth of July. Peter caught his breath and Jody's face went a shade paler. The rumors of Kermit's mercenary past had been rife for months but unconfirmed for the most part. They stared at Simms, then looked at Kermit, who hadn't moved.

Kermit slowly pulled off his glasses, as if to see her better, and his expression hardened. He shoved the shades back on his nose, and took a half-step back as if withdrawing into himself.

"I expect to see you in my office at ten tomorrow," she said ruthlessly before he could speak. "Until then you're off-duty. Get some rest, get something to eat, get out of the office. You're dismissed, Detective."

Peter swallowed loudly which broke the horrified spell that had fallen over him and Jody. "Ah..."

"You're not going to ask for my gun?" Kermit slashed out at Simms.

She met his gaze unflinchingly. "You're more of a danger to yourself than anyone else. I want you out of this office before Hsi arrives. That's an order."

Peter touched his shoulder, feeling the muscles underneath the coat as tight as wired coils. "Let's go, Kermit."

Kermit continued to stare at Simms. Suddenly, he relaxed and gave a faked smile. "All right, Captain. Ten?"

"The airport deal's at eleven thirty," Jody put in apologetically.

"You're off that as well," Simms said crisply to Kermit.

"Fine," he shot angrily, appalling the others. "I'll be in here at eleven." He walked out of the office quickly as if he was fleeing. He left open the door to his office where his monitor glared balefully on his desk. He had been playing solitaire.

Peter stared aghast after Kermit's retreating form. Once he had disappeared down the stairs, Peter turned to Simms. "Why, Captain?"

She sighed, suddenly looking tired. "I don't want to have to turn him in on murder charges for killing Hsi. Go after him and make sure he -- "

The familiar roar of the Corvair floated in the half-opened windows. There was a screech of tires and the sound receded into the normal burr of traffic.

"He's gone," Jody said in frank relief. "He's far too wound up in this, Peter."

"He's got his reasons," Peter said reluctantly. "Now that we've found Keetman, maybe he can get some rest." He rubbed his face, then ran his hands through his hair. "Long day, Captain."

"It's getting longer," she said dourly as the sound of footsteps ushered in a toga-wrapped Broderick, Skalany, Caine and their prisoner along with a set of uniformed policemen. "I assume you have assigned some men to guard the hospital?"

"Broderick spoke with Clancy before he spoke with me," Peter said, looking at Hsi's impassive face as the man was led to the interrogation room. "The guards should be at the hospital already."

"Good. Let's go see what our prisoner has to say," Simms said briskly, heading for the stairs. She paused when she reached Broderick. "Excellent work, Sergeant."

"What about the boys?" Broderick asked, looking around the semi-empty room. "The kids?"

"Their mother picked them up," Jody called reassuringly. "She was worried, but very proud when I told her what happened."

He smiled. "They saved Keetman's life, Captain. I just was there."

"I know. With a lot of help." She smiled back at him. "Detective Skalany, I hear you caught Hsi?"

Skalany leaned her head on Broderick's shoulder and smiled. Her hand pointed to him and then herself, and she nodded.

"It was joint?" Simms interpreted. "Good. See if you can write it up for me tomorrow. Please type it this time." She looked at Caine who was watching the group with a puzzled frown, which cleared when he saw Peter. "Caine?"

"Captain," he said hesitantly, bowing slightly.

"Peter, if you haven't anything else to do tonight, you and Powell do the interrogation," Simms ordered. "I'd ask you, Skalany, but I'm afraid the tape can't record sign language."

Skalany grinned fractionally.

"I will...take her home," Caine said firmly, holding out his arm. Skalany slid her arm into the crook of his. "I will see you...tomorrow, Peter?"

Peter nodded. "Tomorrow."

"Let's get to work," Simms said in a flat determined tone. "I want to hear everything about Mr. Steshka."

  
The man in the deserted corner of the restaurant was visibly nervous. His hands shook as he lifted a forkful of salad. His gaze was fastened on his plate until someone pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down. A huge bodyguard took another chair, facing the nearly-deserted restaurant.

"Nice to finally meet you," Steshka said quietly. "What do you have for me?"

The man pushed a sheet of paper over the table and went on chewing.

Steshka unfolded the note. "So, these are the new arrangements?"

"I got that from the Consulate," the chewer said after swallowing. "You note that the times are approximate. Will it help?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Daterman, it will help," Steshka replied with a faint smile. "Now, that you have the new security arrangements, you can swap the diamonds for me at any time."

"Swap the diamonds... I didn't say I'd do anything like that!" the man protested faintly, glancing around the deserted restaurant. "Our deal was only for information!"

Steshka glanced over the paper. "I had hoped this wouldn't be necessary. There is no time to get the diamonds except after they have been left at the bank. I have some replacement diamonds which can be substituted." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet bag the size of a man's fist. He loosened the string, and poured several shiny stones into the palm of his hand. The yellow light above them caught the facets and the stones glittered.

Daterman stared at it greedily. "They're real?"

"But not as high a grade as the ones coming in," Steshka pointed out. "You will substitute them after the presentation. Later that evening, meet me here and we'll trade."

"You'll give me back my records?" Daterman asked in desperation. "If the bank finds out that I've been investing the bank's money in diamond mines, I'll go under!"

"Or even to prison," the Russian mused. He smiled to allay Daterman's obvious distress. "Don't worry, Mr. Daterman, as soon as the diamonds are in my hands, you will have your records, and there will no way of tracing the losses to you. I give you my word."

"Thank you," Daterman said, humiliated. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek.

"Just one more thing. I have heard Mrs. Keetman will be coming to this city. Is this confirmed?"

Daterman nodded, licking his lips. A fragment of lettuce was stuck to his chin. "Yes, she arrives tomorrow just after the minister arrives. I overheard Welch discussing it with the hotel. Apparently she called there to confirm the arrangements."

"Why not confirm it with the Consulate?" Steshka asked, puzzled.

"The hotel said she didn't want to disturb them before the luncheon," Daterman said with a shrug. "Welch was quite upset by it all. "

"You wouldn't, by any chance, have the number of her flight, would you?"

"It's the earlier flight on British Airways rather than the afternoon one. That's all I know."

"Thank you. In the meantime, should there be any change in the arrangements, you will be in touch with me?" Steshka requested lazily.

"I have your beeper number."

Steshka stood, folding the sheet and putting it in his pocket. "Enjoy your salad." He walked away, the bodyguard a shadow behind him.

Daterman stared at the lettuce like it was poison, then wiped the sweat off his face. He closed his eyes, took several deep breaths, then resolutely began eating again.

  
Outside, Steshka looked idly at the crowds. He sauntered towards the mall where bright lights promised anonymity and entertainment, and a meeting with the local warlords. He was an hour late, but he was sure they'd still want to meet with him. After all he had a diamond mine in his pocket, and criminal information on most of them.

His path was blocked by two women buying ice cream for five small children. After a few seconds, he shoved a boy aside, causing him to cry, then walked onward, ignoring the mother's protests. He was frowning now.

Teng floated at his elbow.

Steshka stopped and looked back at the kids with a distinctly unpleasant expression. He turned to Teng. "Are all the smoke bombs ready at the airport?"

"Hsi set them this morning," Teng replied in distinct baritone. "I saw them. They resemble the sprinklers for watering the plants."

"He was supposed to meet us after he finished with Keetman," Steshka questioned, looking around. "So where is he? Never mind. Does Pedro know exactly what he has to do tomorrow?"

"He knows, sir," the man said motionlessly. "When the smoke bombs go off, he shoots the Keetmans. In the confusion, he makes his escape and joins us here in Chinatown."

"Good. That will take care of any loose ends here." Steshka smiled at the thought. "I will deal with Keetman's son. He should be as easy to kill as his father."  
  
The sun had topped the buildings around the hospital, and flooded the room with light. It sparkled off the cufflinks of the man who entered, stopping abruptly as he found himself looking down the barrel of an oversize gun with a large sight. He put up his hands. "Don't shoot!"

Kermit stared coldly at him from behind the green shades. "Who are you?"

"Christiaan Welch. Attache at the Consulate. Who are you?"

The detective lowered the gun but didn't put it away. "Detective Griffin. 101st."

Welch put down his hands. "I thought I had met all the detectives at the 101st. I seem to have spent enough time talking to your woman captain."  
Kermit slumped back in his chair by the windows. "Captain Simms? Oh, yeah. She'll talk to anyone."

Welch shot him a curious glance at the flat tone but turned to the man asleep in the hospital bed. He frowned,and shook his head. "How is he?"

"Fine. At least, I think so. The nurses said he'd be okay," Kermit said soberly, rubbing his hand over his face. "In a while."

"You need some coffee," Welch said critically studying him. "And some fresh clothes. Maybe you should go home. Get some rest."

Kermit shook his head. "I'll talk with the Colonel first," he said flatly.

Welch's eyes narrowed. "Do I know you? You look familiar."

"I doubt it," Kermit replied forcefully. "I don't think we ever met."

"You've never been in Africa?"

Kermit gave an ugly chuckle, his gaze going back to Keetman. "Oh, yeah.... I've been there."

Welch shook his head in puzzlement. "I know I've seen you before... officer?"

"Detective," Kermit grated.

"You're staying here then. To watch over the Colonel?"

"I'm here for the duration," Kermit said with a jaw-splitting yawn.

"I'm sure that he's well guarded then," Welch replied politely. "I will be back later today."

Kermit shrugged. "Okay."

Welch acknowledged his disinterest with a raised eyebrow. "What do you Americans say? Have a good day." He turned on his heel and strolled out, feeling a touch of pique.

Outside, he nodded politely to the policeman who was drinking coffee by the door. The man smiled back engagingly.

"Is that man really a detective?" Welch inquired.

"Griffin? Yeah. One of the best."

"Really? I think I'll send something around later. Make him feel better," Welch said judiciously. "Good morning, officer."

The cop nodded as Welch strolled out.

  
Captain Simms yawned over the cup of coffee she held in one hand, while with the other hand, she was turning the pages of the local newspaper. The television in one corner was barely audibly.

The fire had made the inside of the Metro section with the rescue of a man noted, but the details were missing. The picture of the fire was spectacular. Broderick would have a hard time living down the picture of him, wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and an undershirt with a blanket slipping around his shoulders. She had no doubt that he was being teased about it out in the squad room right at this moment. At least they had spelled his name right.

She glanced at the clock. Nine-thirty. A half-hour before Kermit was supposed to arrive in her office. What had she been thinking of last night? She shook her head. It was the right thing to do, she knew that. Kermit was too wound up in the case to be useful, but convincing him of it this, just before all his partners went into action, was going to be difficult. She was not looking forward to it.

She glanced out the half-opened door. The detectives were trailing in, some of them heavy-eyed and yawning, finding their way to the coffee machine by feel more than by sight, while others were bright and cheerful.

In fact, the ones that were drooping the most were the ones mixed up in Kermit's problem, what she was mentally dubbing the Mercenaries' Ball/Keetman incident.

Strenlich knocked on her door. "Captain? I'm going to go over the final details downstairs. We're going to be leaving for the airport right after that."

"Fine, Chief. I'll bring down the final information in a minute," she said abstractly, her attention caught by the television.  
Sandra Mason, the persistent Channel Three reporter, was standing in front of the burned-out shell of the elementary school.

"This reporter has learned the identity of the man who was pulled from the fire last night as a Colonel Alexander Keetman, from South Africa, who was visiting the country on a tourist visa, and was kidnapped several days ago. He is now in protective custody at the hospital. The reason for the kidnapping and why he was in the school remains unknown, but our sources say his injuries were consistent with systematic torture."

Simms muttered something under her breath that she hoped would lead the reporter to a lonely grave. Damn! How had they found out who the Colonel was? Now Steshka knew Keetman had survived. She'd better double the guard at the hospital and get the rest of the detectives who were not working on urgent cases out looking for the terrorist.

Hsi hadn't been any help. The man hadn't said a word last night in the five hours that Peter and Jody interrogated him, and finally, out of sheer exhaustion, they'd sent him to a cell, and gone home for the night.

At the reporter's next words, she froze, her hand on the off switch. "Continuing with our unusual coverage of South Africa, Minister Nangolo Otaya arrives today to speak with banking officials in this country on the matter of loans to the new government." This accompanied a picture of a handsome black man in a Saville Row suit. "He will be lunching with the officials of the First National Bank this afternoon before going to a reception tonight held in his honor at the Consulate. It is said that the minister brings with him a gift as a token of appreciation. What it is, is yet unknown. There will be a press announcement at the airport, and a conference held before the luncheon where the gift will be unveiled. Attache Christiaan Welch of the Consulate was very mysterious about it, except to say, `it is every woman's dream.'"

Simms' grimace matched Mason's disdainful tone. Welch had a turn of phrase that was accurate, but a mindset that dwelt in the mid-fifties. Either that or he was trying to alienate the reporter. If that was the case, he was doing a good job.

She picked up the last of the papers on her desk and headed out of the office for the briefing room downstairs.

All the usual suspects were there sans the ones she'd excused. Peter looked unusually scruffy. Jody had bags under her eyes and a tendency to yawn as she sipped her coffee. Strenlich was his usual pristine military self, sending the others reproving glances. Blake was fussing over his equipment, shooting Peter a reproving glance when the detective fiddled with the earplug for his portable radio. Roger Chin sat in one of the chairs looking bright-eyed and interested in what was going on. The Chinatown undercover detective had been called in from an important stakeout late last night to replace Kermit and was avidly curious about the entire situation.

"Strenlich?" she said confidently. "Please fill us all in."

The chief of detectives put down his coffee cup. "Minister Otaya comes in on the twelve-fifteen flight from London. It will take them at least fifteen minutes to unload the majority of the people, who will then be shuffled off to customs. We've set up with airport security to take Otaya to a special room for his customs statement, then he will be moved to the limousines out front."

"Why out the front?" Chin asked. "Isn't that more dangerous?

"That is closest to where the press conference will be held," Simms said with a slight edge. "If we abort that for security reasons, we'll be raising more questions than we need. The minister will give a brief statement at the airport and then go straight to the First National Bank."

"Where the diamond shipment will be handed over in a ceremony, which will also be televised... just in time for the lunchtime newscasts," Strenlich said, slightly disgusted at the prospect. "The bank has taken care of precautions there. They are quite complete."

"The Consulate says that they have their own precautions for Otaya's safety after the luncheon. So, our only problem is the airport," Simms said confidently. "Peter, you and Jody work the front of the crowds. Chin, you and the other plainclothes men will be in the crowd."

"Remember, people, we don't have any idea of how this guy will attack Otaya and the diamonds," Strenlich said harshly. "But we've seen the result."

They nodded. The reports of the torture marks on Keetman were enough to refute any ideas that Steshka might be a nice guy.

"You didn't get anything out of Hsi last night?" Blake asked unexpectedly of Peter, who started out of a light doze.

"Not a thing. He was a stone," Peter said in disgust and rubbed his hand over his face, trying to wake up.

"Blake, you're going to be monitoring us all, correct?" Simms asked.

"I have it all set up," Blake answered confidently. "If anyone other than the airport people are using equipment, I can hear them. If Steshka's men are talking, I'll tell you."

"Good," she said briskly. "More questions?"

Chin looked at the others, then shrugged. "How many in this party, Captain?"

"In the minister's party? He has a bodyguard and a secretary but that's all."

"Where are the diamonds, Captain?" Peter asked abruptly. "I mean is he carrying them or are they locked in the plane's safe or -- "

"I don't know." Simms cut him off a little more emphatically than she had planned. "The Consulate has chosen not to share that information with me."

The detectives exchanged glances of disbelief. "Why not?" Jody blurted out.

"According to Mr. Welch, the fewer people who know where the stones are, the better," she said shortly.

"What, is he scared we'll leak it to Steshka?" asked Jody dryly. She took a sip of the coffee and made a face.

"I've heard rumors in Chinatown that he's thinking of moving in in a big way and that's upsetting all the local warlords. They're thinking of building their own wall against him, and that would lead to war," Chin declared.

"Bon Bon Hai is thinking of joining an alliance?" Simms asked intrigued.

Chin nodded. "It would lead to major bloodshed before someone came out on top, Captain."

"All the more reason to pick him up now," Simms said firmly. "So, is everything clear?"

"Fine," Peter said with another loud yawn.

"Then let's get moving," Strenlich said crisply.

Simms glanced at her watch. It was five to ten. Hell. Almost time to deal with Kermit.

"Chief, I'll meet you at the airport," she said. "I have to deal with a problem." She was aware of Jody and Peter exchanging sober glances, and ignored their unspoken wishes. "Around eleven thirty."

"Fine, Captain," Strenlich said. "Let's go."

  
The sun streaming in the windows of the hospital room.

Keetman was sleeping quietly, a drip attached to his arm. The sun's rays danced over the gauze bandages on both and wrists where they had been tied up. His lips were raw where he'd bitten them.

Kermit had fallen asleep again, his head pillowed on the arm of his blue jacket. His suit looked the worse for wear for being slept in.

He started out of sleep, feeling overheated. His face was starting to burn from the hot sunshine.

He rubbed his eyes, which had gummed together. A good stretched relaxed his muscles. He looked at his shirt and wrinkled his nose, then shrugged and went into the bathroom. He washed his face, then ran his wet hands over his hair, flattening it back. Vaguely, he remembered someone coming in and commenting on his clothes, but it seemed a lifetime away.

He examined the stubble on his chin. Time to get cleaned up, he thought as he went back into the hospital room. But then again, Captain Simms might be here if he took a chance and went home -- better to stay and talk with Keetman than risk her throwing him out of the room.

The cop at the door poked his head around. "Hey, Kermit. Finally awake?"

Kermit glowered at him. "How long have you been there, Fred?"

"Got the morning shift." The officer tossed Kermit a white shirt encased in plastic and a shaving kit. "That guy who dropped by a couple of hours ago sent this over."

Kermit glared at him over the shirt. "That guy...oh, yeah. Right. I remember. Where can I get a shower?"

"The nurses can tell you." Fred looked a little uncomfortable as he met Kermit's gaze. "It's going around the station that Simms has pulled you off that thing at the airport, Kermit."

Kermit gave him a humorless smile. "That's right, Fred. Not my case any more."

"So, you're here instead, eh?" Fred glanced at Keetman, who shifted and sighed but didn't awaken. "What so important about him?"

"He's worth more than you or me, Fred," Kermit said wryly, running his right hand through his hair. "He's a friend of Captain Blaisdell's."

"I'll make sure only nurses and docs get in," Fred said, looking startled. "The Captain's friend?"

"Mine too."

"Yours?" Fred was slightly incredulous, then smiled weakly. "I didn't mean that you don't have any friends -- "

"Yeah. I got a few left." Kermit got direction from the nurse on duty and headed for a room with a shower.

Fifteen minutes later, feeling considerably more human, Kermit came back to find the nurse with Keetman. The man resisted her efforts to awaken him.

She turned and smiled. "Mr. Welch said you'd need breakfast when you woke up, Detective."

Kermit stared at the oatmeal and orange juice, then back at the nurse. "Thank you."

"Thank him." She walked out, and Kermit shrugged and began eating. It tasted better than he thought it would.

Funny. This was the first time he'd felt hungry since he had met Carla, he realized. In fact, he hadn't felt this good in days. All that sleep had refreshed him more than he dreamed. Now, he could think clearly.

He thought that Simms had been right to take him off the airport case. He hadn't appreciated it at the time, and he wasn't sure if it was the best thing for the case, but for him, it was a wise move. The demon that had tormented him since the Mercenaries' Ball was smaller now, despite the fact that he hadn't done anything directly to save Keetman.

They had Hsi now, and he had no doubt that they'd catch Steshka and Teng. It would be more suitable, he concluded as he swallowed the last of the oatmeal, if he simply handed them over to the South Africans. He had no doubt that the man in the bed would devise some kind of punishment if the courts didn't do it. It might be fun to watch.

He caught himself; that was the mercenary in him, the one that Simms had commented on, coming out. She'd been too perceptive seeing that. Kermit didn't like being read that well.

He was polishing off the orange juice when Dr. Sanbourin entered the room. She reproved him with a glance as he lowered the juice glass from his lips.  
Kermit smiled engagingly and put it down. "Morning, Dr. Sanbourin."

"Detective Griffin," she said with a reproachful shake of her head. "How's the patient?"

"He hasn't woken up," Kermit replied.

She checked his chart. "Still a faint scent of gasoline, I see."

"Hard stuff to get rid of," Kermit said soberly. He had cracked open a window to give himself some fresh air.

"Yes...you know I haven't read of injuries like this since the last Amnesty International report on Bosnia," she said equally solemnly. "Want to tell me a little bit more about what happened here?"

"Not really," Kermit said honestly. "I don't know all the details. It's a jigsaw puzzle and Keetman's the main piece."

She replaced the chart. "I'll just let him sleep for now. I'll send you in a proper breakfast...if you insist on staying?" She looked at the crumpled suit. The new shirt was incongruously clean.

"I do," he said flatly.

"Bacon and eggs?"

"Coffee. Lots of it."

"Wouldn't you prefer to come back a little later," she hinted, "since all he's doing is sleeping?"

"I'm staying here," Kermit stated flatly, crossing his arms.

His gaze met hers and she gave in gracefully. "Then I'll send up coffee, and bacon and eggs. You look like you haven't been eating well for the last couple of days. What happened with your wrists?"

He saw the red marks. He had removed the gauze to shower, and hadn't replaced it. "Ran afoul of a woman, Doctor."

Her eyebrows went up but all she said was, "Want to get them properly tended?"

Kermit smiled reluctantly. "They don't hurt anymore."

"I'll send in a nurse," she promised and left.

Keetman stirred as the door shut and Kermit sprang up, but the man just licked his lips and went back to sleep.

Kermit turned and stared out the window. He saw a blue sky set with a blazing sun and the building opposite where other clinics were housed. An airplane flew across the horizon. He wondered what was happening at the airport. Checking his watch he was startled to see it was ten forty-five.

A frown puckered his forehead. Wasn't there something he was supposed to do at ten? Whatever it was, it wasn't going to happen now.

The nurse came in, with a tray of bandages and iodine. Kermit took off his jacket and let her tend his wrists.

Before they were done, Kermit heard raised voices at the door and then Fred looked inside. "Kermit? Got someone out here who insists on talking with you?"

"Me?" The nurse tucked in the last end of the bandage and fastened it securely. "Coming."

The nurse led the way and Kermit followed, pulling on the wrinkled jacket. He recognized the intruder instantly. Rykker was an old contact of Blaisdell's.

Rykker, holding a bouquet of white Calla lilies and green ferns, waited patiently.

Kermit met his glance and raised his eyebrow. "Lilies?"

"The best I could find," Rykker said with an urbane drawl.

"Who's he?" Fred asked belligerently.

"Is he awake?" Rykker asked ignoring the policeman.

Kermit ran his hand through his hair, then shrugged. "Come on in. It's okay, Fred. I'll vouch for him. He's not going to shoot Keetman."

"Not today, at least," Rykker commented, going inside. "He's still asleep?"

"Has been since they pulled him out of the fire," Kermit agreed. He leaned on the windowsill, arms crossed, his back to the glass. His attention was caught by Rykker's gaudy tie clip. It looked like a diamond rosette.

Rykker's expression was noncommittal. "He looks like he had a fun trip to your city."

"The usual torture here is to the pocketbook. Have you heard from anyone, Rykker?" Kermit asked.

"About the rescue? It's on all the newscasts now. I was tracking down Hsi and found he had been accused of attacking a policewoman here in the hospital. A little more digging and I found that Keetman had been admitted," Rykker concluded. He looked at the flowers in his hands, then laid them beside the breakfast dishes. "Weren't you supposed to be somewhere else today?"

Kermit smiled crookedly. "They decided they could do without me."

Rykker eyed him suspiciously. "Not a good sign, my friend. Not the way to keep your job."

"I'll never lack for employment," Kermit replied dryly.

Keetman stirred, riveting their attention. Both men stood on opposite sides of the bed, Kermit's shadow falling over Keetman's face.

The man's lashes fluttered, then opened slowly. He blinked.

"Colonel?" Rykker said softly. "Colonel Keetman?"

Kermit touched his shoulder. "Colonel Keetman, you're safe. Wake up!"

Keetman's gaze traveled up Kermit to his face, then, with considerable effort, he rolled his head and looked at Rykker. "I...know you. Rykker."

"Colonel, you're under police protection," Kermit said, pitching his voice to carry through the Keetman's fogginess. "We found you in the school. How do you feel?"

Keetman's eyelids narrowed, then drooped to almost closed before reopening. His grey eyes were bloodshot. "Who...are you?" he whispered.  
"Griffin. Kermit Griffin."

Keetman studied him, then started to smile. The scabs on his face pulled and he stopped. "Griffin...yes. Griffin. Blaisdell's...boy. What time... is it?"

Rykker glanced at his Rolex. "It's almost eleven."

"What day...of...week?" Keetman asked.

Kermit said, "Thursday. Minister Otaya's coming in right now."

Keetman's face looked a shade paler. "Griff...in. Griffin. The airport!"

"We've got enough security to protect God," Kermit said lightly. "Otaya should make it in safely."

Keetman tried to get up and was stopped by Kermit's hand pushing him back down. He grasped Kermit's arm. "Otaya...is coming -- "

"Yes, the security's on him," Kermit said patiently. "Don't worry."

"I don't think it's that," Rykker concluded eying Keetman's desperate face. "What are you trying to say, Colonel? What about Thursday?"

Keetman glanced at Rykker, then back at Kermit. "Dani..."

"Danielle?" both men said simultaneously.

"Mrs. Keetman?" Kermit added. "What about -- "

"The girls...they were joining...me." Keetman's voice grew stronger as he talked. "They were supposed...to be arriving...this afternoon. Rykker..I...I told them that...she was coming." He barely whispered the last sentence.

Kermit saw a look of dawning realization and horror on Rykker's face before he hid it. Steshka's words came back to him, `The family won't be a problem.' Damn vendettas!

"I'll go pick them up," Kermit said, looking at his watch. "What time will they be getting there? Otaya's flight gets in in thirty minutes. Enough time for me to get there."

"For us to get there," Rykker said sharply. He glanced at the phone. "Why not call it in to your office?"

"The team's already in place," Kermit snapped. "I'll call from the car, but I'm not counting on reaching anyone."

Their gazes met in understanding, then both looked at Keetman, who tried again to raise himself up on the pillows, and failed.

"Colonel, I'll send in a nurse," Kermit said, holding him down again. "I'll bring Danielle and the girls back here so you might want to get ready, get a shave, get rid of the smell of gasoline."

Rykker grinned. "I'll see you later, Alexander."

Keetman sank back into the pillows his face white as the sheets. Kermit led the way out, followed by Rykker. "Fred, make sure no one gets in there,"

Kermit said sharply to the cop who looked alertly at him. The tone of voice was sharp; Kermit was worried and on the prowl.

"Do you think Steshka means to hurt Danielle?" Rykker asked, following him out to the parking lot.

"Never do anything by halves," Kermit replied grimly. "Get everyone in the family."

"Is this your car?" Rykker stared at the lime-green Corvair in undistinguished surprise. "What a beautiful antique!"

"Just get in." Kermit roared out of the parking lot and up the street before he took out the red cherry lamp, and started it. The roads cleared before them.

  
Blake had been lagging behind since the handle on his overstuffed briefcase broke just as he was heading for the car. Broderick had found a roll of duct tape, and they'd fixed the handle but it had taken precious time.

Actually, Blake was in no real hurry since the majority of his job was already done. He had set up all the communication between Peter, and the others, making sure it did not interfere at all with the airport's sophisticated communication gear.

Simms had been fit to eat nails when Kermit didn't arrive at ten. Blake suspected that she had planned to include him back on the detail. Kermit was simply making it worse for himself, which was unusual for the computer expert. Blake would have laid odds that Kermit would meet the confrontation.  
Blake was well aware that he was considered less than action figure material by most of the squad. In fact, if he lost his glasses, he was blind as a bat and would be a liability. Still, he was a little irked that he'd been delegated to the last patrol car, which then left without him, leaving him to follow in his own car.

Broderick made a cut in the last bit of duct tape, and laid it on the handle of the briefcase. "That should hold, Blake."

"Thanks," Blake said, picking up the briefcase. It felt strange with the tape.

"Heading for the airport?" Broderick asked idly, picking up a sheet of paper which had a computerized drawing of the bodyguard, Teng, that Peter had worked up with Kermit. He put it on the top of the stack of wanted flyers. One slipped out and onto the floor. Neither of them noticed.

Blake smiled sheepishly. "If I can find my car."

Broderick stared at him, then realized it was a joke, and chuckled. "Maybe they'll wait for you."

"Planes are only late when you don't want them to be, " Blake said hopefully.

"Only in your dreams," Broderick joked and moved down the counter to deal with some paperwork.

"Hey, you, Mr. Detective, please?" The hesitant, stumbling voice sounded familiar and the hand that plucked his coat was familiar. Blake turned to see the derelict that he and Jody had spoken with on the street and who had given them the jacket, standing beside him with an exasperated uniformed officer looming right behind him. "Mister..."

Seeing the desperation on the homeless man's face, Blake hesitated. "What?" he asked. "What do you want?"

"I remember you fr'm that night, and I seen you again, and I haven't done nothin'," the man stuttered. "I was sittin' by the store, and this big brute comes along and shoves me off the stoop so his guy doesn't have me ruinin' his view of Chinatown, and I want -- "

"What has he done?" Blake asked curiously of the policeman who was trying to get homeless man's attention without laying hands on his grimy shirt.

"The storekeeper said he was causing a public nuisance fighting with some guy, so we pulled him in," the officer said. "Plan to send him down to the local shelter."

Fear sprang into the homeless man's eyes. "Not the shelter, not there again, I got money, you gave me money, I don't wanna go!" he babbled, clutching at Blake's arm. He went down on his knees.

The detective drew back, wrinkling his nose. The man's smell was foul.

"You'd better go along," Blake ordered. "Maybe we can find somewhere else than the shelter -- what are you doing?"

The man scrabbled on the floor by Blake's feet, and rose with the sheet of paper in his hand. It was the sketch. "This is the guy, I done nothing wrong, please, please, don't send me -- "

"You know this man?" Blake cut him off sharply, looking at the flyer. "This is the man chased you from the doorway?"

"Yeah, that's him," the man said with sudden brevity.

"Anyone else?" Blake asked urgently. "Was he with someone else?"

"Sure, I told you," he said, his words tumbling over each other, "he said his boss said I was ruining the view, and had to go."

"Where in Chinatown was this?" Blake barked out.

"You know where they sit around and drink tea, and watch the girls. Disgusting dirty old men." The derelict drew himself up with dignity. "Old men like that watching all the girls. It's opposite the television store."

Blake eyed him, wondering how much to believe. If he was right, and he had the right man, then they had a chance of finding Steshka and his bodyguard in Chinatown right now.

"Why not the airport?" he wondered aloud.

"Eh?" the homeless man asked.

"Okay, Pauley," the officer said tolerantly. "Time for you to go."

"Here," Blake said abruptly reaching around for his wallet. "Here's forty bucks. Get cleaned up, get some food, get some help."

Pauley stared at him in disbelief, an expression matched by Broderick's. The desk sergeant stared at Blake as if he were crazy.  
Blake turned. "Tell the Captain I'll be late," he commanded.

"What are you up to, Blake?" Broderick gasped.

"Checking out a lead," Blake said heading for the door. "I'll call in if I need backup."

Broderick glanced at Pauley, who was staring loose-jawed after Blake, then at the officer who was shaking his head.

"If he's going after that man," Pauley said in sudden lucidity, "then I hope he has a bodyguard!"

  
The airport was an important international hub with flights taking off every three minutes or so. People moved restlessly about, greeting their friends, saying goodbye, or just walking in transit from one place to another.

Peter glanced to the right. A small podium had been erected, with a battery of television cameras and photographers in front of it, talking or eating dubious hot dogs, while roving reporters waited for Otaya's press conference. He spotted Sandra Mason and her team pushing their way to the front, and stepped out of her line-of-sight. She would know something was going on if she spotted him.

He still wondered where the diamonds were. Either the Minister was personally carrying them, or there would be some box with armed guards provided by the Consulate, and that would have been taken care of in advance. He hoped it had been.

"How is it?" Welch asked from the corner of his mouth as he drifted up to Peter. His gaze constantly scanned the area.

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Peter muttered back. "A couple of dogs got free, a few lost children. The flight was delayed?"

"Yes. He's in customs right now, but he should be up momentarily," Welch muttered. He glanced at Jody who came up beside Peter, tucked her arm in the crook of his and gave him a smile as if they had just met after a long time. "I hear you found the Colonel last night."

"Actually, one of the uniformed officers did," Peter acknowledged. "I thought you would have visited the hospital."

"I did," Welch said tightly. "This morning. I didn't stay long."

"Really?" Peter asked in surprise.

"Your man, Kermit, was quite rude. He looked bad as well," Welch said frankly. "I thought he was going to shoot me for a second when I finally got permission from a nurse to enter, but -- "

"That's where Kermit is? He nearly shot you?" Jody burst in a little louder than she expected. "Peter..."

"No, don't worry about him," Welch said eyeing her warily. "Is he well?"

"Just a little stressed," Peter put in smoothly. "I'll talk to him later."

"Well...ah, here is the minister!" Welch moved through the crowd, and the policemen who were standing by the red velvet ropes that cordoned off the area let him through after they looked at the identification on his lapel.

"What was Kermit doing at the hospital?" Jody muttered under her breath.

"Making sure Keetman stays alive," Peter said soberly. "We'd better split up."

She gave him an unexpected kiss on the cheek. "Got to keep up our cover," she explained as she dived into the crowd.

The passengers came up the ramp, chattering as they met with friends. The intercom announced a British Airways flight had just arrived and was debarking at a gate nearby.

Peter noticed that the crowd was growing as the time ticked away. Casual curiosity had drawn people to where the cameras were set up. Only stone planters, filled with gravel, sand and various unremarkable plants provided some relief from the burgeoning masses of humanity.

Taxis were parking behind the limousines and he saw Strenlich having a heated discussion with drivers.

Peter heard a creaking noise and turned around.

A wheelchair was being rolled up the ramp, the woman in it old and withered. Her daughter or granddaughter followed the airline representative who wheeled the chair into the open area where they were greeted by a prosperous businessman. He kissed the woman's cheek, then led them through the crowd towards the glass doors that led outside.

People straggled toward the down escalator where their luggage would be arriving. The noise grew as more and more people flowed into the area. A couple of the photographers snarled at the crowds when they were jostled.

He and Jody watched alertly for the minister. Daterman had gone down the ramp to greet him.

Looking up, Peter saw Simms on the upper level with Ronnie Chin looking over the crowds. She pointed to something, and, leaving Chin behind, headed for the escalators.

Peter looked around to see if he could see what she noticed, but it was lost in the massing crowd. He looked back at the ramp which was empty. "So where is he?" he questioned rhetorically. Simms came up just in time to hear him, and shot him a reproachful glance.

"I think I hear something," Jody replied, her voice in his earphone as she switched on the radio. "It's show time."

He hadn't known that Minister Otaya was a short man, Peter thought as he saw the minister walk up the ramp. Following behind him was a huge black man, most likely the bodyguard, and a woman who was obviously his secretary, complete with briefcase, glasses and file of papers. Her ethnic dress was bright yellow and red, a startling contrast to the suit-clad minister. Daterman brought up the rear, licking his lips in worry, and looking around.  
Simms moved away towards the press. The harsh bright lights of the television cameras went on, and the reporters clustered in preparation for the announcement.

Peter saw a slight stir of the crowd towards the back and glanced over towards the glass doors. Strenlich was staring at someone causing a disturbance at the back of the crowd, but wasn't acting as if it were a dangerous situation. He glanced towards the podium and caught Peter's eye. "Peter?" His voice was tinny on the radio.

Peter flicked on his radio. "Chief?"

"Peter, Kermit's here and he's raving about something," Strenlich said uneasily.

"Kermit?" Peter said in disbelief, looking around. The room was packed with people now, more of the incoming travellers passing customs and being greeted. It was rapidly becoming a massive mob. He couldn't see anything. "Is he a danger?"

Strenlich tersely replied, "He was raving something about Keetman."

"Keetman?" Peter said louder than he had planned to. "What about Keetman?"

Simms frowned as she appeared out of the crowd. "Kermit's here? What is he doing here?"

"I don't know," Peter said desperately.

"Well, we're about to get started," she said acidly. "He'd better just keep it down!"

 

Kermit plowed through the crowds, his eyes searching desperately for a somewhat familiar face. He suddenly realized that he had no idea of what Danielle Keetman really looked like, except that fifteen years ago, she had had long red-blond hair and wore a blue dress. She would have two children, he reminded himself, dismissing several women who looked the right age but were childless.

At the battery of televisions he checked for the British Airways flight. It had already arrived, a half-hour early, and the passengers were disembarking and heading for the luggage area.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rykker moving towards the press conference, and he turned to follow.

 

Peter scanned the crowd with growing alarm. So far everything was going precisely as scheduled. The minister was being introduced by Commissioner Kincaid and some woman from the Mayor's office, and Captain Simms wasn't that far away.

He caught sight of Kermit at the arrival screens and began pushing his way through the crowds. He tripped over a British Airways bag that was on the floor and almost fell.

"Oh, sorry!" the girl said in a horrified tone.

Peter had the impression of a pair of grey eyes under streaked blond hair, a deep tan, and a blue dress that hung on almost imperceptable curves. She was probably in her early teens.

"That's okay," he said gently, smiling at her.

The girl smiled back hesitantly, then ran after her mother, who was holding the hand of another child of about eight, and looking around with an expression of worry on her face. Beautiful girl. Why did she look familiar? The shape of her face nagged at Peter. Did he know her? Or them? Where was Kermit?

 

Kermit suddenly felt someone grab his arm. Peter held on tightly, despite Kermit's resistance. "Captain Simms wants to know what's up?" he hissed in a low tone so they didn't disturb the tourists.

"Tell the captain that we've got two targets," Kermit said, knowing the sensitive mike would broadcast it to everyone on Blake's network. "Danielle Keetman and her daughters just arrived on that flight."

Peter gasped. "Danielle Keetman is here? Where?"

Simms said authoritatively, "What was that, Peter?"

It wasn't the hair that caught Kermit's attention, it was the way the woman turned to look out over the crowd as if she were expecting to see someone.

Her blond hair was held at her nape in an elegant hair clip, while the two girls fidgeting behind her wore their hair loose around their young faces. She finally moved toward the information desk, the girls following.

Kermit pulled his arm free and headed toward the woman, who had stopped by one of the planters, still looking. She checked her watch, and frowned.  
Peter watched him stunned. He saw another familiar face in the crowd, moving towards them. Rykker? What was the ex-mercenary doing here, and who was the woman?

"What was that?" Simms asked urgently into the microphone. "Caine!"

"Uh, Kermit's gone, Captain."

Peter watched Kermit accost the woman whose daughter had nearly tripped him up.

Rykker reached her a second after Kermit. "Danielle, darling, how lovely to see you," he said urbanely. "You remember me, of course."

She stared at him for a second, then smiled. "It's been over five years, Rykker, but, of course, I know you. How lovely to see you again!"

"I'm sure you remember Kermit Griffin," Rykker said with some urgency, scanning the crowd.

Danielle turned and eyed him in faint puzzlement, then her brow cleared. "Griff! Why, you look so much better than the last time I saw you."

Kermit smiled tensely, his eyes hidden behind the green shades. "I feel better as well, Mrs. Keetman."

"Momma, where's the man Daddy sent?" one of the girls asked, looking around. "What's going on over there?" She pointed to where the television lights were shining brightly and the photographers were pointing their cameras towards the podium.

"Please let me take you out of here," Kermit said urgently. "I can take you to the Colonel."

His tone alerted the woman who looked suddenly panicked. "I was told that you had found him --"

"Yes, he is in the hospital, recovering," Rykker said reassuringly. "Muggers," he said to the children who suddenly looked stricken with terror. "He should be out in a day or so."

Danielle bit her lip. "Muggers?" Her tone was doubtful.

"Let's get them out of here," Rykker muttered urgently to Kermit. "Please, Mrs. Keetman -- "

"Look, Momma, it's Mr. Otaya!" the younger one piped up cheerfully. She pointed to the podium.

"He looks really good in that suit," the older one said in admiration. “I think Daddy should some of those suits, Momma.”

“Hush, Nicole, Alicia,” Danielle reproved them. “Your father loves his old suits. Let's go with Mr. Rykker and -- "

"Detective Griffin, l0lst," Kermit introduced himself, unconsciously scanning the crowd.

"A policeman!" Danielle's eyebrows went up. "You don't look like a policeman!"

Peter saw another familiar face in the crowd just beyond Kermit and shoved aside the woman in front of him. Steshka's driver was reaching into his jacket. "Hey -- !"

Smoke exploded from the stone planters as the bombs detonated, providing a thick screen. Rykker knocked down Danielle and the oldest girl, Nicole, as bullets sprayed where they were a second before. Someone screamed in anguish as they fell to the gunfire. Kermit swept his arm around Alicia and pulled her behind him as he dropped behind the other side of the planter. "Stay down!" She trembled against him.

The crowd reacted to the smoke and the bullets in utter panic and they fled towards every side, some running out the front doors where Strenlich was fighting to get inside along with the airport security. Kermit felt a bullet tear the shoulder of his suit. Whoever was shooting was good because the shots were becoming more accurate despite the smoke.

The few television cameras still upright were swiveling around to film the potential carnage once the smoke dissipated. The lights were turned so that they fell on the crowd. Kermit tensed himself to go out into the blackness when he felt someone holding on to his belt, holding him back. He looked behind him.

Alicia was holding on, her cheeks streaked with tears. She sniffed and shivered but didn't let go.

The instant of hesitation was enough to make him late. The glass doors of the airport opened, people fled outside, and the smoke was rapidly dissipated. Out of the smoke came Peter, who with one swift leg . kick, hit the arm of the man with the Tec-9 sending him falling back on his' rea'r end. Ronnie Chin came out of the smoke and landed on the attacker, squashing him flat. A minor struggle ended when Peter and Chin had the man face-down on the marble, and handcuffed. A security guard retrieved the machine pistol. Kermit no longer worried about getting shot by the enemy.

He turned to the child, who was still crying.

"It's okay," he crooned, putting his arms around her. "They've got him." Danielle looked up from where she and Nicole were huddled against the concrete. Her eyes begged for reassurance, and he gave it with a smile.

"Rykker?" Kermit called in an undertone.

The black-clad mercenary looked over his shoulder, his gun still held ready if unobtrusively in the folds of his black overcoat. "What?"

"Let's get them out!" Kermit called urgently.

Rykker nodded. "Your car's still outside.on the pavement. Can we get through the crowds?"

Kermit glanced at Peter who was watching him and the others. Dawning recognition was on his face. "I think we can get out now. Follow me."

Danielle and Nicole grabbed their bags, while Rykker picked up the one Alicia had dropped; and Kermit brought up the rear. Peter nodded and sketched a salute, then turned back to the bound man. The press flooded in their direction and Peter braced himself for extensive questioning from Sandra Mason. Over their heads, Kermit saw Simms and Welch hustling the minister out'the doors to the limousines. Whatever the announcement had been, it had been totally upstaged by the shooting.

He looked behind to see several people in huddles on the hard floor, crying or moaning. The crowds made room for medical personnel and the police, but there were at least five casualties.

Outside, Kermit met Strenlich, who waved them through the police line. Flashing lights and sirens preceded more reinforcements from airport security.

"We'll be at the hospital," Kermit called tersely to Strenlich who nodded, his eyes on the family huddled behind Rykker. . .

"That's your car?" Nicole asked doubtfully, eyeing the .Corvair~

"Don't you like·green?" Kermit countered.

"Not that color green."

"Get in, Nicole," Danielle ordered, climbing in back with Alicia. "Now."

"You'd better stay down," Rykker ordered briskly. He climbed in the back, still looking around warily, his gun out but held unobtrusively by his side. Danielle nodded and lay down, her arms over Alicia who was still sniffing and shaking, but not longer crying.

Kermit drove the car out of the illegal parking space, its red cherry light spinning on the dashboard until he reached the highway. Then he turned it off. "You can get up now," he called.

Danielle straightened up, and Alicia popped her head up, looking around. The sun had just popped out from a stray cloud and the city sparkled in the cool breezes that had come in overnight. From a distance, it looked like Oz. She rested her head on her folded arms and stared at the glittering skyscrapers. Rykker felt Danielle touch his arm. "Please tell me what's going on, Rykker?"

He covered her hand with his own. "It's all right, Danielle. This time we've really outfoxed Steshka. This time we've got him cold."  
"I'm so glad you came over to our side years ago," she said with a shaky smile. "I am really so very glad."

  
Blake parked his car neatly in a space, and rolled up the windows. He stepped out, narrowly being missed by a speeding Datsun, and walked around to feed the meter. He didn't know Chinatown that well. Most of the time it was Chin's and Peter's turf while Blake specialized in rigging bugs and taping the intimate conversations of elected officials.

He actually felt freer than he had in weeks, which was a strange feeling for the veteran detective. It had been a long time since he'd gone out on the street. except when he had vice duty, .and that was at night and disgusting. It had been awhile since he was alone as well; something that he realized abruptly was maybe not a good idea.

He felt the sag of the small radio in his trouser pocket. There would be a way to call for backup if Pauley's information was incorrect. Blake looked up and down the crowded street. The cooler temperatures had brought out crowds of people who had been chased inside by the intense heat. Gaily painted signs waved in the light breezes. The vendors fanned themselves with copies of the local newspapers or fliers, as bees swarmed around the fruit set out in the open stands. Housewives browsed and chattered. It all looked reassuringly normal.

"Blake?" Kwai Chang Caine's voice came from behind him. He turned around in relief.

"Caine. Glad to see you."

"What ... are you doing here?" Caine asked curiously. His worn brown hat sheltered his face from the bright sunlight. He looked cool and relaxed.

"We got a tip that Nicholas Steshka is here drinking tea," Blake explained, suddenly realizing how ridiculous it sounded. Drinking tea?

"Ah," Caine said in an understanding tone. "This is the kidnapper."

"Yes, but," Blake looked around, "I'm not sure which way to go."

"This way," Caine ordered firmly, pointing to the left. "That is the restaurant on this block ...that serves tea. We will ...start there." Blake fell in beside him as Caine walked down the street. "We'll have to make sure it is him," he said in an undertone, stepping out of the way of an Asian housewife who bowed politely to Caine, who tipped his hat.

"It is he," Caine said flatly.

"I was there the night Rykker identified him in the street. Then, I did not know ... he was the kidnapper." He stopped, and waved at a small restaurant where several tables with umbrellas were set out on the sidewalk. A huge man in a brown suit· waited patiently against one of the buildings; several of the tables were filled with talking Chinese businessmen. Alone at one table, a man sat watching the bank of . televisions in the store next door, and sipped his tea. His face was shaded by a black hat. A waiter came over. Steshka threw a bill on the tray, and the waiter vanished.

"That's probably the man," Blake said confidently. "No, that is him."

Caine glanced penetratingly at him. This didn't sound like the quiet, sometimes foggy detective that Peter occasionally made fun of. Blake's expression was firm and resolute.

The detective looked at the monolith leaning against the wall, and pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket. "Fits the picture that Peter drew," he said, nodding his head.

Caine took the sheet and admired the drawing. "What... do you plan to do?"

Blake pulled out the radio. "Dispatch, this is Blake. I need backup right away in Chinatown."

"Roger that, Blake," Broderick replied instead of the normal dispatcher. "What are you doing in Chinatown? All hell's broken loose at the airport."

Steshka sat up straight, his back radiating anger. His attention was riveted on the television set.

Caine and Blake looked beyond him at the screens where a multitude of television anchors were showing pictures of the airport attack. Smoke blurred much of the footage, but what caught their attention was a man, a woman and two children being ushered out of the smoke with Kermit following.

Other channels showed Peter tackling the gunman, using kung fu to knock the man's gun away, and, with Chin's help, arresting him.

Captain Simms was interviewed on one station, while pictures of a small black man, the minister, being hustled into his limousine followed on other screens. Welch brought up the rear, his face full of worry and anger.

Steshka shoved his chair back, and the waiter coming up with a fresh pot of tea, stepped back in fear. "Teng!"

Blake realized that time had just run out.

"Just get them here NOW, Broderick!" he barked into the microphone, and shoved the radio into his pocket. He licked his lips and headed for Steshka, who tossed down a bill on the table and spun around, coming face-to-face with Blake.

"Nicholas Steshka, I'm arresting you for the kidnapping and attempted murder of Alexander Keetman," Blake said firmly. At least, his voice didn't quaver as he had thought it would. The bodyguard swept up, his hand outstretched. Before he could reach Blake and steshka, Caine moved in, kicking him. Steshka fell against the neighboring table. The patrons took one look at the situation and ran for cover as Teng regained his balance and came at the priest with both hands outstretched, ready to rip him apart. Steshka stared at Blake, then with an ugly laugh, tried to punch him in the stomach.  
Blake countered it, then used a smooth judo move that took Steshka by surprise, pushing the man's face into the tablecloth. He pulled out a pair of handcuffs and got orie cuff around Steshka's wrist before he was shoved aside as Caine and Teng's fight fell on top of them.  
Teng managed to get a grip on Caine's jacket and spin him around, but Caine retaliated by kicking the man's right knee out from under him. The man sprawled on the ground, dragging Caine to his knees with his weight.

Caine pinched the nerve in the man's neck and the man collapsed into unconsciousness.

Blake threw himself around Steshka's waist, bringing him up against the brick face of the restaurant. Steshka kicked back, hitting him just below the crotch. Blake staggered back and fell on his back. Steshka pulled his Tec-9. "I'm leaving," Steshka snarled, waving the gun at the crowd, which was frozen in panic.

"No," Caine said gently from behind him.

The mercenary gaped at him as Caine grabbed his hand, long fingers around Steshka'S little finger, and pulled his arm upright so that the gun pointed at the sky by the time, his finger pulled the trigger. The pain of his little finger being broken made him fall back towards Caine, who gave him a hard rap on the solar plexus. Steshka gasped and collapsed against the façade of the restaurant.  
Blake scrambled to his feet and ran over, clicking the handcuff closed on Steshka's other wrist. He stood and held out his hand to Caine, who shook it.

"We did it!

"You ...did it," Caine corrected him gently. "I … was backup." Two police cars and an unmarked sedan roared up, their lights flashing.

Out of the sedan skidded Skalany, waving her gun and gesturing emphatically for the other policemen to get out of her way. She stopped and glanced at the scene, the two unconscious men, Blake and Caine smiling at her, and shook her head in disbelief. She came over and unexpectedly gave Blake a hug.

"I thought you were on sick leave," he said in surprise. Skalany smiled at him as best she could, and shrugged off his comment. "Let's take them in."

Skalany put her arm through the crook of his and walked him into the blue-clad crowd.

  
Peter saw that of the entire company, Daterman was the most upset by what had happened at the airport. His limousine contained Captain Simms, the minister, the bank man and the secretary, whose serene expression showed no trace of anxiety.

Otaya asked suddenly, "What are your names?"

Simms looked a bit startled. "I'm Police Captain Karen Simms of the 10lst precinct. This is Detective Peter Caine."

"You were at the airport to protect us?" the minister asked politely.

Peter nodded, his face expressionless. "We were told there would be an attack on you and your –“

"The diamonds," the secretary piped up unexpectedly.

"Ah, the diamonds," Otaya mused. "I was told just before I landed that my friend Alexander Keetman has been found alive."

"Yes," Simms stepped in. "He is at the hospital."

"Then after the luncheon we will go to the hospital," the minister stated, glancing from Simms to Peter.

"I believe that Mr. Welch has arranged that you go to the Consulate, Mr. Minister," Daterman interrupted nervously. Otaya smiled, his brilliant white teeth a contrast with his ebony skin. "Mr. Welch is a charming gentleman, but I will be going to the hospital.”

Peter wondered if Kermit had made it safely out of the airport with his small group. He suddenly realized why he had recognized the girl's face -- she had the same clear bone ~tructure as Keetman. So, how had Kermit known they would be there and in danger? Another thing to cross-examine the computer expert about.

Otaya leaned forward and tapped on Simms' nylon-clad knee. "You are thinking of the attack at the airport, yes?"

"Yes." She looked startled. "You caught the man with the gun?"

"Yes, but -- "

"I know the woman he attacked," Otaya said with a hard edge to his voice. "You may expect, that my government will ask'for him to be extradited for attempted murder of South African citizens."

"Just wait till you hear what else has gone on," Peter muttered under his breath.

Otaya stared at him for a second, then looked back at Simms, spreading his hands wide. "What else has gone on, Captain? Please tell me."

  
Rykker led the way up to the special room where Keetman was ensconced in his hospital bed. Kermit brought up the rear, carrying both the girls' bags' slung over his shoulder.

Dr. Sanbourin stared at them in astonishment. "Who are these people?" she demanded.

Kermit held out his hand to Danielle. "Dr. Sanbourin, let me introduce you to Dr. Danielle Keetman, and her daughters, Alicia and Nicole."

"Where's Daddy?" Alicia asked, her voice shaky again. Her eyes were filling with tears.

"In there," Sanbourin said sympathetically, her gaze darting to the other girl who was standing protectively next to Rykker. Fred opened his mouth then shut it, as Kermit sent him a glare. He opened the door to the room and stepped aside.

"Daddy!" Alicia cried and ran to him in the bed.

Keetman had been staring out the window, the television to one side showing the news of the airport attack, but he turned his head as they entered. He winced as the eightyear-old daughter jumped on the bed and landed next to him. He put his arm, the one without an I.V., around her, pulling her tightly to him.

"What's this? What's the matter?" he crooned softly.

Nicole rushed to the other side, and Keetman put his other arm around her in a hug. She sniffed, and her eyes were filled with tears, but, she didn't say anything.

Danielle reached over her daughter's head and kissed her husband gently on the lips, then stepped back. Her nose wrinkled as if she smelled something unusual. Then her gaze was purely professional.

"This is Dr. Sanbourin," Kermit introduced the dark-haired physician.

"You're a doctor, Mrs. Keetman?" Sanbourin asked.

"Yes," Danielle replied. "May I ask, why does this room smell like petrol?"

Kermit glanced at Keetman, who grinned at him.

Sanbourin looked a little flustered. "If you'd like to step outside, I'll show you his chart, Mrs. Keetman. We can discuss it there."

"I would enjoy that," Danielle agreed. "Girls, keep an eye on your father. Don't let him go anywhere."

  
The tinted windows that made up one wall of the executive dining room muted, the bright sunlight. The light beat down on well-watered petunias and impatiens-in a window box that ran the length of the room. At one end of the room was set up the table on the dais where the actual ceremony would take place, cordoned off by the ubiquitous red velvet ropes. A stand of photographers, better dressed than the ones at the airport, chatted with each other, and expensively clad men and women talked as they ate the hors d'oeuvres being carried around by waiters in black tie. The sound level was high. Round tables sat around the room, decorated for the luncheon.  
Peter, Simms and Strenlich brought up the rear of the minister'S party, their ordinary business gear contrasting with the elegance of the other attendees.

Simms saw the minister waving to her and went over to him, leaving Peter and strenlich to mingle. The chief found himself beside the buffet with plenty of space around him; the airport smoke clung to his dark grey suit. He helped himself to some salmon and a water glass that a waiter brought around, and settled down to wait, the radio bug in his ear.

Peter stood at one end of the podium, smiling uncomfortably as people eyed his jeans, plaid shirt and the jacket that covered the gun in his belt holster. He didn't move. He shook his head at the waiter offering him wine. He finally switched off the radio and turned to her. "Captain, tell me' something. Who would have known that Mrs. Keetman was coming in today?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Probably the Consulate and whoever they told. Why?"

"Then who told Steshka that she was coming in today, so he could set the smoke bombs and the shooter?" She stared at him. "That's a very good question, Detective Caine.

Would you like to go ask Mr. Welch that?"

"Delighted to, Captain." Peter wove his way to the consular officer who was being charming to several women. Most of them stared right through Peter except one brunette, who looked him over carefully from head to toe, then smiled alluringly.

"I have to talk to you, Mr. Welch," Peter said, ignoring her look.

"If you'll excuse me," Welch said to the company around him. "Duty calls."

They went to a secluded corner behind the podium. Peter came right to the point. "Who knew that Danielle Keetman was coming in today?" Welch looked thoughtful. "Let's see. I knew, of course, Otaya, the General, the Sutton Park Hotel because she confirmed her arrangements there", Daterman over there -- "

Peter waved his hands in disgust. “A lot of people, then!"

"Probably," Welch agreed.

"Why?"

"I just want to know which one told Steshka?"

The consular officer took a deep thoughtful breath. "That's an interesting question. I can narrow it down a bit for you. Only I and Daterman knew that she was coming in early rather than late. Her original itinerary brought her in long after this luncheon."

Peter's eyes met his in growing excitement. "That leaves only you and him as suspects then."

Welch looked startled. "You don't suspect me, do you?"

"I suspect everyone," Peter murmured, his eyes scanning the room.

"Here comes the show." Daterman tugged at his lapels nervously as he stepped next to Otaya. "Minister, it's time to get started.”

"Excellent. Lead the way."

There was mild confusion on the dais as the major speakers took their places, and the crowd settled around the circular tables.

Peter retreated around the room until he was next to Simms.

"Any luck?" she murmured.

He took an eggroll from a passing waiter and bit into it. "Keep an eye on Daterman or Welch."

"Interesting. Hungry, detective?"

He nodded. "Missed breakfast, Captain. Slept through it."

So much had gone on since that morning, Simms had almost forgotten the late-night interrogation. Hsi was yesterday's catch.

After opening remarks, Otaya took his place at the podium, his bodyguard behind him. The silent secretary sat on the other side, her eyes trained on the plate before her.

He spoke of his country and the positive changes taking place, and of the help of countries around the world. His speech only lasted three minutes, but everyone was impressed with the lyric tone and evident love for the land. "Finally, my government would like to thank the First National Bank and all the others who have lent money to the rebuilding of our country. This will provide electricity in the townships, jobs for the people, and sanitation.

This will bring us up to the level of your country," Otaya ended, "and I hope that someday you visit my beautiful land and see it in all its beauty and potential, not bearing the ugly scars of its past." He graciously acknowledged the applause then stepped off the podium to the small table set up in front of the photographers. Daterman came out to join him, holding a glass-topped box, which he opened. The inside was lined in black velvet.

With a flourish, Otaya pulled out a small green velvet bag from his coat pocket, and poured the contents onto the velvet.  
The lights set up for the television cameras sparkled on a Milky Way of diamonds. An involuntary gasp came from the crowd, who abandoned their tables to move in closer. The television cameras narrowed in on the gems.

Daterman's grip was shaky, and the diamonds rolled back and forth until Otaya's hand came up and steadied the tray. When the photographers signified they had done their job, Daterman folded the top forward, and clumsily got his finger stuck in the crack. With a whimper, he dropped the box, which fell open, spilling diamonds over the marble floor.

The crowd gave a universal gasp, and began to search for the stones.

Peter stared around at the crowd of bent pin-stripes and naked backbones. Then his attention was caught by Daterman.  
While everyone else was helping recover the stones, the bank man had backed up till he was against the base of the podium, where he sank back in relief on the platform. He put the box down, and pulled out his handkerchief, wiping his face, and shaking.

"Caine!" Simms snapped. She waved down a waiter who had an tray with three glasses on it. She took the platter and put the glasses aside. "Circulate and collect the stones!"

Peter looked down at his unconventional garb, then shrugged, took the tray and began offering it to the luncheon guests. He smiled, he flirted slightly, he watched rich people reluctantly put the stones on the tray. One very beautiful woman cradled her three stones, then cast them into the pot, and winked at him.

"Can I call you later?" He shook his head. but gave her a wide smile.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," Peter boomed as he reached the end of the room and brought it back to where otaya was standing with Daterman and Welch. He emptied the diamonds into the box. Welch snapped closed the latches and took the box.

"I'm sorry, so sorry," Daterman blurted out, wringing his hands. "The vaults are right this way." He led Welch and Peter out of the room to another one.

"You're taking us to the vaults?" Welch asked politely as he followed Daterman.

"Yes ...yes, of course."

Daterman fumbled open the gate then took them inside the vault to where the safety deposit boxes were kept. He opened one and held out his hands for the box.

Welch handed it to him and they watched the bank man put it in the box.

"Number three-oh-three," Peter mused aloud. "I'll make sure that's in my report."

Daterman jumped as if he had been hit by a cattle prod.

"Are you always this nervous?" Welch questioned, eyeing him.

They heard the clatter of high heels tapping their way down the hall, then Simms came around the corner. "I have some news for you," she said

sharply. "We have captured Nicholas Steshka."

They gaped at her for a second. "Captured, captain?" Peter finally asked.

Her lips twitched in amusement at their stunned expressions. "Yes, Blake got a tip that Steshka was in Chinatown, went down and arrested him. Catch him, Peter! "This last concerned Daterman who slumped down against the boxes, gasping. They caught him as he fell.

"What the devil is going on?" Welch asked sharply. He and Peter carried the man outside into the wider corridor.

"Heart attack," Peter hazarded. He flipped on his radio. "Chief, we're going to need some paramedics down in the vault area. Daterman's having an attack."

"Right!" Strenlich replied from upstairs. "I'll call them."

"Maybe he has some pills or something," Welch suggested. He began to rummage through the man's jacket pockets, then opened it and checked the inside.  
"No, no," Daterman said feebly, pushing at the hands. "I'm fine, leave me alone ..."

Welch drew out a small orange pill bottle and a black velvet bag from the inner pocket of the suit. "Looks like tranquilizers. But here ..."

His gaze met Peter's, then Simms. "What is in the bag?" she questioned as if she already knew the answer but had to ask.

He glanced at Daterman who had shut his eyes and looked completely miserable. Welch opened the small bag, and poured the contents out into his hand.

The diamonds glittered in his palm.

"More diamonds?" Peter questioned. "What were you planing to do with them, Mr. Daterman?" Daterman groaned miserably.

"Probably switch them for the ones we deposited," Welch guessed, eying the man. "Sell the diamonds off· to the highest bidders? Or to Mr. Steshka?"

Peter flicked him a questioning glance. "Steshka?"

"We aren't total incompetents," Welch replied mildly. "While you were looking for Alexander here, we started to do an in-depth search on Steshka. We found out that he had been covering the debts of the bank in a gold venture out of some private funds, and that the contact was a Mr. Daterman. It seemed obvious that he had purchased himself a contact man."

"When did you learn all this?" Simms asked indignantly. ..

"Last night about the·same time the television cameras were transmitting the rescue of the Colonel,"welch explained. "We talked with the bank president and explained the matter. We planned on catching Mr. Daterman in the act of handing over the glass to Mr. Steshka -- "

"Glass?" Peter broke in despite himself.

"Glass," Welch affirmed. Simms stared at him, then looked at the rows of safety deposit boxes. "You gave the bank glass upstairs? All those diamonds were glass?"

Welch smiled apologetically as he emptied the diamonds back into the bag. "It was all done with understandings on the highest of levels in the bank and your local government. The diamonds are here in America, but they are not here in the bank. You must understand that we knew there was a leak somewhere in the organization so we set up this … sting while the minister was in London. Once we knew the Colonel was safe, it seemed right to continue with the plans."

Daterman gave a groan and buried his head in his hands. A tear rolled down his cheek. "It's all gone now …”

"The diamonds upstairs were all glass?" Peter asked, astonished. "They look so real!"

Simms shook her head in disbelief. "Well, I think we'd all better go back upstairs to one of the conference rooms and thrash this out."

They were interrupted by paramedics. "Is there someone with a heart attack down here?" the woman in front asked.

"No, that turns out to be a false call," Simms said in a determined tone. She looked at the bank man, who was crying, but had regained his co.lor. "Mr. Daterman will be coming with us."

  
Nicole snuggled closer and Keetman winced. He looked at Kermit and Rykker, who was now lounging beside the window, a slight satisfied smile on his lips.

"Girls, I think I would like to speak with. these men privately," Keetman said unexpectedly. "Would you join your mother, please?"

Alicia glanced upwards, then her lower lip protruded rebelliously. "No!"

Nicole looked up at the ceiling in disgust...Alicia! Come on." She walked around the bed, and hauled on her sister, who just clung tighter.

"Go with your sister, Alicia," her father commanded, giving her hand a pat and trying not to wince. "You'll be back soon enough."

She sniffed, then reluctantly let go, sliding off the bed. Alicia marched out of the room, her sister following, rolling her eyes at Kermit, who hid a grin.

Keetman looked at the two men. "Thank you, gentlemen, for my family. I owe you a debt that I can't repay."

"Oh, I don't think so," Rykker said at his driest. "I might assume that my debt's finally paid off?"

"For shooting me?" Keetman asked with a slight smile. "Take it up with Dani."

"I'll assume Blaisdell's debt is paid in full," Kermit stated flatly, crossing his arms.

Keetman blinked. "Blaisdell's debt. Ah, the promise I made him give me. Have you become the payee, Griff?"

Kermit nodded. "The captain isn't here to do it. His son doesn't understand the ramifications."

Keetman gave a slight chuckle, and nodded. "I suspected that it would end this way. You may have paid off Blaisdell's debt, but I'm still in debt to you."

Rykker's eyebrow went up. "A position of power, Griffin."

Kermit shook his head. "I'm out of the field, Colonel. Let's consider all debts paid."

The wounded man chuckled again. "I told Paul Blaisdell that and he denied it. Let's put off payment till we can discuss it without being interrupted."

"What?" Kermit looked up as the door was pushed open, and Danielle came in trailing her daughters, holding ice cream cones in their hands. Dr. Sanbourin came in last, smiling at the babble of voices. Rykker pushed off the ledge. "I think it's about time for me to go."

"Oh, don't leave now, the party's not over yet," Simms called unexpectedly. She stepped in the· doorway, followed by Otaya, Peter and Welch. The commissioner and another man stepped into the crowded room.

"Nangolo!" Keetman held out his gauze-wrapped hand, and the minister took it in a delicate grip, smiling broadly.

"I am glad you're alive, Alexander," he said formally.

"There are more police here than I've seen at a station," Sanbourin whispered to Danielle. "You can't turn around without tripping over an officer."

"This is obviously the center of the universe," Danielle whispered back. "Ah, Christiaan! Nice to see you again." She smiled at him. The attache waved to her. "I'm glad to see you as well, Mrs. Keetman."

"I believe that you have something for me, Danielle?" Otaya asked in a deep voice and dramatic flourish.

She laughed. "Girls, do you still have your packs?" They nodded. "Bring out the drink holders, please. Alec, your supper tray?" She put it over his lap. He folded his hands and smiled in anticipation.

Nicole reached around Kermit to retrieve her bag from a corner where she had dropped it, and rooted around till ahe found the plastic cup, decorated with dancing gazelles, its top firmly attached.

Alicia held out hers. "Here, Momma."

Danielle took the two cups and drained the liquid out of them into a water glass, then unfastened the tops.

With a flourish that rivaled Otaya's, she dumped the crushed ice on the tray where it sparkled like broken Waterford crystal.

"Mooi klip," Alicia chanted running her fingers through the stones. "Pretty pebble."

"Alicia ... her mother murmured reprovingly, "leave then alone."

"Diamonds," Simms said aloud, shattering the sudden silence. "Real diamonds. You sent the diamonds here secretly.”

Welch looked around apologetically. "We had no idea of what we were facing or who was our enemy, but it made good sense to shift the delivery to another courier. Since Mrs. Keetman insisted on coming to America, she offered to make sure the diamonds arrived. We never thought she was in danger."

"It turned out she was the target; though," Kermit said in an undertone designed to not reach the girls' ears. "Out of the frying pan ..." He couldn't believe that the South Africans had tried a route that might put children in danger, but he realized suddenly that no one had been really clear with each other. Everything had happened too fast for indepth briefings. That the result had been positive owed as much to Lady Luck as to good police work.

  
"And into the fire," Simms finished sotto voce.

"So, are we done yet?" Alicia piped up unexpectedly. "I mean, there's no more shooting or anything like that?"

"No more shooting," Kermit replied soothingly. "Only on the television set."

"Dying for diamonds," Keetman mused, looking at the array in his lap. "What rot. You can't eat them, you can't plant them. Ridiculous." Danielle folded the cloth and handed it to Otaya, who turned and handed it to man who had come in with the Commissioner. "I believe these are yours?"

The man nodded, his hands tight on the cloth. "I will be sure to deposit them safely, Minister Otaya."

"Who is he?" Kermit whispered to Peter.

"Bank president," Peter muttered.

"I think it is time to leave," Danielle said in an authoritative voice. Beside her, Keetman looked tired. "My husband needs his rest, and I'm sure that we can talk about this situation at another time."

"That's a very good idea," Dr. Sanbourin agreed from the back.

"Everyone out, please." Keetman gave Alicia and Nicole each a quick kiss, then held up his hand to Danielle. "Take care of yourself, love."

"I think I have the best protection," she replied, squeezing his fingers. "I'll be back later."

They filed out of the room, the Commissioner and the bank president, with Welch in reluctant attendance, leaving first. Danielle ushered the girls outside to find Kermit, Simms, and Rykker all awaiting her. Fred was patently divorcing himself from the group.

"I thought you'd need a ride to your hotel," Rykker suggested urbanely.

"I thought I'd take them," Kermit protested.

"I thought we were going to the zoo," Alicia said loudly. Her voice echoed off the walls.

"Oh, hush up," Nicole reprimanded her. "Momma, we're going shopping, right?"

Danielle looked harassed. "Girls, I believe our first stop is the airport because the bulk of our luggage is still there!"

"Tell you what," Rykker suggested. "Kermit'll take you to the hotel then call the airline and have them deliver the luggage."  
Kermit glanced at him in surprise.

"What about you?" Danielle asked. "Will we see you again, Rykker?"

Rykker shrugged. "You never seem to lose me, Danielle. I'll be around town."

She unexpectedly kissed him. "Thank you for everything, Rykker.

“You owe me nothing anymore." The mercenary gave her a tiny hug. "Take care of yourself, Mrs. Keetman, girls. I'll be seeing you." He walked away.

She turned to Kermit. "So, we go to the hotel now?"

"Yes, ma'am."

  
The man who leaned over the desk asked, "Is Chief Strenlich here?"

Broderick jumped. He hadn't heard anyone approach, and it had been an unusually quiet morning. He had been devoting himself to paperwork.  
He glanced up, then rose respectfully. "Colonel Keetman?" The man raised an eyebrow in surprise. Despite the traces of bruises and burns, he looked reassuringly normal and healthy. He wore a dark brown jacket over tan pants and open-necked shirt that showed the tag end of a bandage on his chest. He leaned on a cane. "I believe I have to make a report about a loud party."

Broderick grinned. "I'm not sure that's completely necessary anymore, Colonel, but I'll let the chief decide on it. I'll just tell him you're here. Don't go' anywhere." Keetman laughed.

The sergeant spotted Strenlich across the room, his arms filled with files. Around him bustled the normal flow of the office with Blake shifting through pages and pages of documents from Texas, and Jody leaning on the closed door to Kermit's office, talking to Peter who was flipping a styrofoam cup in his hand. Simms was hanging up the phone in her office.

Broderick stepped in front of the chief, the only way to get his attention. The stocky man stopped dead in his tracks. "Chief, there's someone looking for you."

"Looking for me?" Strenlich asked, raising his eyebrow in disbelief.

"Out front," Broderick replied with a trace of amusement in his ' voice. Simms eyed him suspiciously.

Strenlich dumped the files on Peter's desk. "Caine! These are yours!"

  
"Chief!" Peter protested. "I've got all those gunrunners to finish!" Jody grinned and took the coffee cup from his hand. "I'll get you some caffeine."

"Get me another twenty-four hours in a day!" Peter called. He dragged back his chair and sat down, ignoring her grin.

Strenlich stopped dead when he came into the main room. Keetman was reading the bulletin board. In one corner, next to the wanted posters, was a newspaper clipping with photograph of an embarrassed, toga-clad Broderick and an explanation of the fire. The man turned and met Strenlich's startled gaze.

"I believe I have to make a report?" Keetman asked with a slight grin.

The chief's ears went a trifle red. "I don't think that's necessary any more, Colonel."

"I didn't want you to think I don't listen to the police," Keetman added politely. He grinned momentarily.

Strenlich struggled with his composure for a second, then gave up , and laughed. "I understand. You were' tied up."

Keetman laughed with him.

"That's it exactly." He glanced at Broderick, then back at the clipping. "It appears we've met before." Broderick's ears went red.

"Well, yes."

"Thank you for my life," Keetman said simply and held out his hand. They shook.

"Colonel!" Simms came out of the squadroom. "They've let you out of the hospital?"

"They released me into the care of a doctor," Keetman retorted.

Simms smiled. "Your wife?"

"And my daughters. It was quieter in hospital."

"Just one question, Colonel," Strenlich asked in a more serious tone. "Is your son okay?" Keetman looked puzzled.

"Robert? He seems to be fine. I spoke with Parker several hours ago."

"There was some worry that Steshka might try to kill him," Strenlich explained self-consciously.

“So that was why Parker took him on safari until yesterday," Keetman said thoughtfully. "He seems to have had a wonderful time. Says he bagged his first catch."

"That sounds noble," Simms said dryly. "A lion?"

"No, a poacher," Keetman commented with a slight smile. "What will happen to Steshka?"

"I believe your government has already asked for extradition," she replied. "I believe we will be granting it."

"He will be tried in your courts on several counts of attempted murder. That should put him away," Strenlich supplied.

"I wouldn't count on it," Keetman commented. "He has many friends over there."

"I'm sure you do too." Keetman gave a slight smile.

"Well, we will see. I believe that Hsi is also being extradited to ...”

"Back to China," Strenlich supplied.

"That will be the end of him," Keetman said dispassionately. "He missed his execution before. He won't now. Very good."

"Where's your family?" Simms asked to change the subject.

"I believe they went to the zoo. I'm going to meet them there," he said urbanely. "I just dropped by to say goodbye."

"Have a safe trip home," Simms replied with a slight smile.

"Thank you for everything, Captain. Good day." With a last nod, Keetman turned and walked out of the police station.

  
Kermit stood in front of the stone wall that encircled the grassy area in the African section of the zoo. The heat had broken with thunderous storms the day after the press conference, and the sky was now a brilliant blue with a few puffy clouds as contrast. The temperature had dropped into the mid-70s and the crowds around him wore floppy hats and summer clothes. He stood out in contrast with his characteristic trench coat over a suit and the dark glasses, but he was ignoring the occasional glance as he stared at the animal in the enclosure.

The hyena hobbled up to the summit of the hill, looked around, then scratched at the earth. Kermit was vividly reminded of that night in Angola and the way he had expected death in the form of teeth and claws. The animal didn't look dangerous now; he looked ugly. Harmless beyond the moat that separated the wall from the animal's areas, he was a reminder of the past that Kermit had put behind him.

Suddenly, words came out of the past -- "there are always hyenas, Griffin." "How true, Bob, amen," he murmured. The injured man had been taken home by his wife. Kermit wasn't sure of how they would pay the medical bills but they wouldn't accept his help. He would find a way to make a loan without them knowing about it.

He heard running footsteps, and turned.

Danielle followed the two girls, who were decked out in bright shirts and shorts and neon sneakers. On her head, she wore a soft cloth elephant cap with a bobbing trunk, an incongruity with the neat denim dress and sandals.

She smiled broadly at him.

"Like the hat?"

"Very much," Kermit said with a grin. "Does it remind you of home?"

She made a face, while Alicia bounced on the stone parapet, vying for his attention. "We went to the movies last night and had buckets of popcorn!" she said breathlessly

"Girls, leave him alone," Danielle remonstrated. "I'm sorry, Griff, for their manners."

"That's all right," he said with deadly seriousness which didn't fool either of the girls, who smiled sweetly at him.

Nicole stared at the hyena. "Yuk. It looks mangy."

Kermit looked over at it. "It does at that."

"You were watching it," Danielle commented shrewdly. "What were you thinking?"

Kermit gave a rare smile. "That I'm glad it's over there, not over here nibbling on me."

"How true," she agreed smiling back.

"Where's your husband?" he asked.

"He said he'd join us at the Lion House. You're joining us for dinner?"

Kermit shook his head. "Got some work to do. Got to get back on the job."

Alicia made a horrible face. "Work? That's not any fun." She caught his hand. "Come on. I want to see the cheetahs."

Danielle accepted his reply with a nod of understanding. "It's time for all of us to get back to work. We fly back in a couple of days."

"After we see the cats," Alicia said insistently. "Have you ever seen cheetah?" She peered at Kermit.

Kermit touched her hair gently. "Have I seen a cheetah? Oh, yeah ...”

They walked off toward the Lion House where they could see Keetman sitting on a bench, his hands folded on his cane, awaiting them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End
> 
> Bibliography:
> 
> Berlitz Pocket Guide, South Africa, Oxford: Berlitz Publishing Co., 1994.  
> Briggs, Guide to South Africa, Old Saybrook, CN: Globe Pequot Press Inc., 1994  
> Brink, Andre, "The Afrikaners," National Geographic, 174 (1988) 585.  
> Cobb, Charles E., Jr., "The Twilight of Apartheid," National Geographic, 183 (1993) 66-94.  
> Finnegan, William, Dateline Soweto, Harper & Row, 1988.  
> Hodgson, Bryan, "Namibia: Nearly a Nation," National Geographic, 161 (1982) 755-797.  
> Kanfer, Stefan, The Last Empire. New York: Farrar Straus Giroux, 1993.  
> Kench, John and Goldblatt, David, Cape Dutch Homesteads. Cape Town: C. Struik Publishers.  
> Kenneally, Christopher, "High Veld to Transvaal," Escape, 1996, pp. 64+.  
> Laure, Jason, Namibia. Chicago: Children's Press, 1993.  
> Rissik, Dee, Culture Shock! South Africa, Portland, Ore: Graphic Arts Center Publishing Company, 1994.  
> Rosemarin, Ike, South Africa. New York: Marshall Cavendish Corporation, 1993  
> Pallister, David, South Africa Inc.: The Oppenheimer Empire, New Haven, CN: Yale University Press, 1988.  
> Stein, R. Conrad, South Africa. Chicago: Children's Press,  
> 1986  
> Spectrum Guide to Namibia, (Edison, NJ: Hunter Publishing Inc.)  
> Visser, J. A., The South African Defence Force's Contribution to the Development of South West Africa, South Africa: Military Information Bureau, 1982.


End file.
